


Take Two

by Bundibird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 4th year au, And yet, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Harry-Draco friendship, I'm just having life dramas and can't update often, Quidditch, Ron and Harry are fighting, Yes this is still an active fic, at all, but draco isn't surprised at all, but he thinks he doesnt like it, but the point is he wasn't ACTUALLY supposed to wind up liking harry, dont worry he fixes that, draco hadn't actually worked out which one yet, draco is horrified that harry doesnt follow it, draco wasn't actually being SERIOUS, english quidditch league, harry doesnt realise how much so, here we are, hermione is protective of harry, in that he ACTUALLY ends up friends with Harry, it doesn't go the way he planned for it to, it was meant to be either a joke or a dastardly plan, quiddich features a lot, snape doesnt know whats going on, so draco makes the most of an opportunity, that wasn't supposed to happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bundibird/pseuds/Bundibird
Summary: Never let it be said that a Slytherin doesn’t know to take hold of an opportunity when it’s presented to him on a silver platter.[A Fourth Year AU in which Draco makes the most of Potter and Weasley’s fight and takes a second shot at befriending Harry. For the Greater Evil, obviously.]Cross-posted at ff.n





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because yay for Draco/Harry friendship, guys. Best. Aside from Scorpius, the only good thing to come out of that damned book The Cursed Child was the Harry-Draco friendship I’ve wanted for years. Also, yay for “damn it how the hell did I wind up on the Light side this wasn’t supposed to happen” Draco. 
> 
> Finally – I actually love Ron, personally. But this is written from Draco’s side of things, so Ron doesn’t get a great portrayal, at the beginning in particular.

Draco Malfoy is a proud Slytherin.

 

As far back as records are kept, every Malfoy worth his surname has been in Hogwarts’ greatest House.

 

Slytherins (the _decent_ ones at least – Draco isn’t referring to Crabbe and Goyle, here) are _smart._ And not merely book-smart, like Ravenclaw and that Gryffindor _pest –_ no. Slytherins are… street-smart. _World_ -smart. They see how the world works, and they work with it to their advantage. They’re cunning, and they’re observant, and they’re successful. They’re stealthy, and they’re resourceful, and they’re ambitious. 

 

And – possibly most importantly – they can _recognise a golden opportunity when it’s presented to them._

 

Which means that – the day after _Harry bloody Potter’s_ name was spat out of the Goblet (because _of course_ Harry bloody Potter would somehow elbow his way into the Tournament; like he doesn’t _already_ have enough fame and glory for a half-blood who hasn’t even had a decent growth spurt yet) – when Draco notices that Weasley is storming around like some kind of red-headed storm cloud, Potter is snapping at everyone in reach, and both of them are only bothering to look in each other’s direction in order to glare fiercely, Draco doesn’t merely see it as an opportunity to make Potter’s life miserable.

 

No. No, this? This is an opportunity for so much _more._

There’s no sense in making rash moves, Draco thinks to himself – he’s a Slytherin, and Slytherins _plan things,_ unlike those bullheaded idiots in Gryffindor, thank you very much – so instead he withdraws a tad and resolves to merely observe until he can see the best route forwards.

 

It doesn’t take him long to work out what all the fuss is about.

 

Weasley, according to the gossip Draco’s been able to gather, doesn’t believe Potter’s claims that he didn’t put his name into the Goblet (and that’s a surprise, because _obviously_ Potter _did_ manage to circumnavigate the system somehow, but Draco hadn’t expected Weasley to actually be smart enough to realise that) and is now furious that Potter:-

 

 **a:** didn’t bother telling his supposed best friend what he’d done, and:

 

 **b:** didn’t bother sharing his rule-breaking techniques with Weasley in order to give him a shot at the title too (not that the Goblet would have picked Weasley, of course – even if there’d been no other entrants _but_ Weasley, Draco suspects that the Goblet would have just sat there silently, spitting out exactly nothing until everyone gave up waiting).

 

Meanwhile, Potter is apparently furious about Weasley’s refusal to believe his innocence (Potter – innocent! _Ha,_ a _laughable_ concept), and as a result, the two aren’t speaking.

 

And actually – from what Draco’s been able to gather, there are few-to-none who actually believe Potter’s ludicrous claims, even in the boy-hero’s own House.

 

Draco sees a glimmer of a plan.

 

He’s not forgotten that day --- over three years ago though it may have been. He had perhaps taken too stringent a line that evening, when he’d made disparaging comments about the red-headed pauper who, in hindsight, had obviously already insinuated himself within Potter’s circle on the train ride.

 

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” Potter had said, and it was only then that Draco had realised that Weasley had already _weaselled_ his way in, and that Draco had missed out on the chance to be Potter’s only friend.

 

Had Draco been more experienced in the art of manipulation and had he registered earlier the apparent importance of Weasley, he would have offered Potter his friendship _without_ any slights directed towards the red-head. Better to share Potter with a Weasley than to _lose him_ to a Weasley.

 

Besides. If he’d done it that way, Draco could then have worked to nudge the lower-class boy out of the equation entirely. It would only have taken a few months to achieve, once his own friendship with Potter was secure. But alas, Draco had been overeager. Inobservant.

 

Rookie mistakes.

 

He’s learnt since then.

 

Whether Potter put his name in the Goblet or not is immaterial, at this point. Potter is upset that Weasley doesn’t believe his claims of innocence. That no one but Granger believes his claims of innocence, if the gossip mill is to be believed.

 

Therefore, the best way to nudge open the door that has been barred these last three years? Is to believe those claims of innocence.

 

Right then.

 

Draco leaves dinner early and lounges in a hallway that he knows Potter has to traverse in order to get up to his Common Room. He’s only waiting ten minutes before the Boy Who Lived rounds the corner, alone, and pulls up sharply when he catches sight of the Slytherin.

 

“Your usual trio is down by a pauper and a mudblood,” Draco says, and then belatedly realises that insulting Granger might not actually be the best way to get into Potter’s good graces. He’s actually still talking to that one, after all. Oh well. To be too friendly too early would do nothing but set Potter’s warning bells ringing.

 

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Potter replies, starting to walk forwards again.

 

“I just wanted to see if the rumours were true,” Draco says casually as Potter makes to walk around him. “I must say, I _am_ surprised. I knew Weasley was thick, but this is a new standard even for him.”

 

That gets Potter’s attention, and the dark-haired boy draws to a halt opposite Draco, his green eyes one-part-surprised and one-part-suspicious behind his glasses. Honestly. Has the boy never heard of sight-corrective spells? For the saviour of the wizarding world he is _painfully_ muggle at times.

 

“What do you mean?” Potter asks, sounding suspicious and a little bit like he doesn’t know whether he should be jumping to Weasley’s defence or not. Honestly. The boy is too loyal by half.

 

“Well, he believes you put your name in the Goblet, doesn’t he?” Draco asks offhandedly, pushing off the wall and dusting his clothes down, giving every appearance of being more interested in the state of his robes than what he’s currently saying. “Do you think maybe he’s got the same number of braincells that his family has galleons? That might explain him. You could give him _two_ braincells per-galleon, and he’d _still_ barely have any, so maybe it is that.”

 

“Wait, you – what?” Potter says, his eyes wide under that ridiculous mop of a disaster that the boy dares to call hair. “So you mean you… believe me?”

 

“That you didn’t put your name in the goblet?” Draco asks, glancing up from straightening his robes, and he shrugs, as though it were obvious. “Of course. Why on earth anyone would actually _want_ to participate in this forsaken Tournament, I have no idea. It’s like people forget that Champions regularly _died_ trying to make it through this in the old days.”

 

Potter pales a little. Hee. Excellent.

 

“And besides,” Draco goes on, sounding casual and dismissive, like none of this is any more interesting than the Charms homework set for them last week. “The whole point of competing and winning is to win glory and honour for yourself, isn’t it? As much as it pains me to say this, I hardly think that the boy who defeated the Dark Lord needs any assistance in the glory and honour department, do you?”

 

Potter’s looking at him with narrowed eyes, like he suspects that Draco’s up to something (oh, he is) but hasn’t worked out just _what_ yet. Draco, having said his part, shrugs dismissively and makes to stride past Potter and out of the corridor, but the other boy steps into Draco’s path and blocks his way. Draco raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“What if I _did_ do it?” Potter asks, belligerent all of a sudden. “What if I decided that if I’m going to be famous – going to have _all the glory and honour,_ and all that – that I want it to be on my terms, for something I actually remember doing? What about that?”

 

Draco levels an unimpressed expression at the other boy.

 

“You, The-Boy-Who-Hates-His-Fame, wants to earn more? I think you’re mistaking me for your dim weasel friend.”

 

Potter blinks at him like he doesn’t know what to make of… any of this.

 

“If you could move,” Draco prompts, when it doesn’t look like Potter’s going to be continuing on his path any time soon, and he’s still standing in front of Draco and blocking him in the corridor.

 

“Why are you here?” Potter asks, suddenly suspicious all over again.

 

Draco raises a cool eyebrow.

 

“We’ve already covered this,” he says, and then continues. “Because I’d heard that the weasel had accused you of lying about the Goblet, and I had to see for myself. I must say, I _had_ thought that the rumours would turn out to be false. And yet, Weasley continues to surprise. Now, if you don’t mind, I actually do have somewhere to be.”

 

Potter peers at him in baffled suspicion-tinged-confusion for a couple of seconds more, and Draco tugs decisively on his robes a final time before shouldering past him and setting off down the hall, without so much as a sideways glance at Potter as he goes.

 

He can feel the other boy’s eyes on him the whole way down the corridor.

 

Well, he thinks to himself. That went rather well.

 

…

 

Stage two is a bit trickier, but nothing Draco can’t handle. He can’t just come right out and _say_ it, after all; not without prompting, not with their history.

 

Draco subtly drops a couple of hints in the common room that night (not outright hints – just half an offhand comment made to one person, but said in the _hearing_ of another, and another partial comment dropped elsewhere while someone else is listening in), and – by the next morning, most of Slytherin is walking around with badges that say “Go Diggory!” sometimes, and flash “Boo, Potter!” at other times.

 

Hm. Not quite how Draco would have done it, but good enough.

 

Good enough indeed, because – while the badges spread throughout practically the entirety Slytherin and Hufflepuff by the end of breakfast, and around most of Ravenclaw by lunch (and Draco even sees a few _Gryffindors_ wearing them, which is just too wonderful for words), Draco’s “Go Digory!/Boo, Potter” badge is conspicuous by its absence.

 

Crabbe and Goyle – ever ones to jump on a bandwagon – are wearing a badge apiece, and Draco allows it until an opportune moment.

 

“What are those?” he demands in tones of longest suffering, just as they’re walking along the corridor after Charms. If Draco’s timed this right (and he has), then Potter and his classmates will be coming up the south corridor from Transfiguration which joins the one Draco and his lackeys are traversing like the bottom stroke of a T. Draco, walking along the horizontal stroke of the T, should be within earshot of them all, even if none of them can see each other yet.

 

“They’re the…” Crabbe starts, sounding confused. Poor chap.

 

“Diggory badges?” Goyle says, filling in the silence and sounding just as confused as Crabbe.

 

Draco heaves a sigh.

 

“Take them off,” he says, sounding annoyed. “It’s bad enough that we’ve got a _Hufflepuff_ representing the school without you two going around with badges supporting him.”

 

They’re just about passing the entrance to the South corridor now. Draco can hear the quiet mutterings and clomping footsteps of the approaching Gryffindors, and knows they’ll be able to hear him.

 

“But,” Goyle starts, “the other half of the badge says _Boo Potter?”_

_“Exactly,”_ Draco says, in the tone of someone who’s just had his argument won for him. They’re passing the corridor. It’s the two gossipy girls in front, _perfect._ Potter will hear about this in no time. Draco gives no impression that he’s even aware of their presence, striding onward without a sideways glance.

 

“Are we… supporting Potter then?” Crabbe asks, baffled.

 

“Well we’re not supporting _Diggory,”_ Draco sneers, and then they’re at the end of the corridor and turning left towards Transfiguration.

 

…

 

There’s a double potions class that afternoon, shared – as usual – with the red-and-gold hoard.

 

Potter slides into the seat next to Draco as soon as he arrives, which is a first.

 

“Why aren’t you wearing a ‘Go Diggory’ badge,” he demands, without pomp or ceremony.

 

Draco turns a raised eyebrow on him.

 

“Oh I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Did you _want_ me to go around wearing a derogatory badge with your name on it?”

 

“Want, no,” Potter retorts. “But at this stage you’re practically the only one who’s not, which I find a _tad_ suspicious.”

 

“Granger’s not wearing one either,” Draco points out.

 

“Hermione’s an exception to the general rule,” Potter replies. “She’s been my friend for years.”

 

“So has Weasley,” Draco points out, and he gets to see what Potter’s face does when the boy refuses to flinch.

 

“And _your_ reasoning for not wearing one is…?” Potter says, refusing to be dissuaded.

 

Draco sighs long-sufferingly.

 

“Well it would be rather foolish of me to do so, considering that I disagree with what it says.”

 

“I’m sure you could charm the damn things to stick on just the _Boo Potter_ version, if you’re that opposed to supporting Cedric,” Potter says snidely, because he doesn’t get it yet, apparently.

 

Draco rolls his eyes, and expertly pretends that he’s not aware of the fact that the whole classroom is listening in by now.

 

“I said I disagree with what it says, not with _half_ of what it says.”

 

Potter glares narrowly at Draco for a moment, before his eyes flare wide in surprise.

 

“Wait,” he says, leaning back and regarding Draco with equal parts surprise and suspicion. “You’re trying to tell me – what, that you’re supporting _me?”_

 

“Of course I’m supporting _you,”_ Draco says, affecting insult. “It’s the first Triwizard Tournament in _years;_ I’m not going to support _nobody._ And if not you, my other options are _internationals,_ or – ” he shudders “– a _Hufflepuff._ The Golden Boy of Gryffindor is a _painful_ choice, I won’t lie, but you’re also the only _logical_ choice, given the alternatives, personal history aside.”

 

Potter looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

Snape chooses that moment to sweep into the classroom, and Draco knows that he’s spotted and is surprised by the unusual seating arrangement in his front row only by the minute hitch in his usually smooth stride.

 

“You will be working in pairs today, and will be attempting to make a Wit-Sharpening Potion,” Snape announces in his standard no-nonsense manner, and casts a disdainful glance over the Gryffindor-dominated side of the room. Potter startles as he realises – apparently for the first time – that he not only is _not_ on the Gryffindor side of the classroom, but is in fact sitting in the front row, surrounded on all sides by Slytherins.

 

“ _Do_ try to succeed,” Snape says silkily to the Gryffindors. “The Fourth Year syllabus is hardly challenging, but I don’t doubt that will stop any of you from struggling. If you manage the Wit-Sharpening Potion today, you can use it throughout the year and perhaps prevent an explosion or other such… calamity.”

 

Longbottom’s gulp is audible in the silence of the room, and Draco isn’t the only Slytherin who snickers under his breath. Potter swivels to glare at him, and Draco shrugs an unrepentant shoulder at him.

 

Snape turns to flick his wand at the board, and the instructions appear up there in the Professors usual narrow scrawl. Potter makes to eel quietly out of his seat.

 

“Potter, exactly where do you think you’re going,” Snape says, inflectionless and without turning around.

 

“Oh, um…” Potter says, and Draco sees the moment Potter recognises the problem. There are no empty seats on the Gryffindor side of the room.

 

Weasley’s sitting next to Granger (and glaring viciously their way, while Granger casts worried expressions at Potter every few seconds), Longbottom and Bulstrode are paired, as usual (Draco’s never going to understand Millie’s patience for the Gryffindor twit, but then, the boy is _marginally_ less disastrous than Crabbe and Goyle, so perhaps that’s the appeal); the air-headed girls are together; and the black boy and the Irish one are too, which rounds out the Gryffindor year level and leaves Potter thoroughly stranded with the Slytherins.

 

“Uh, nowhere, I guess,” Potter mumbles, sinking back into his seat. Weasley snickers into his hand loudly. Granger thumps him and glares, and the rest of the red-and-gold clad hoard shift uncomfortably in their seats and look everywhere but at Potter.

 

Draco, for his part, pays no outward heed to any of that, and simply sets out his cauldron.

 

“We’ll use my cauldron, if you don’t mind,” Draco says, setting his box of standard ingredients out in front of him and flicking a thumb across the blade of his favourite knife to check it’s sharpness. “I don’t doubt yours would do fine in a pinch, but mine is a _Hestia,_ so I think we’ll go with that.”

 

“A _Hestia?”_ Potter asks after a moment, clearly baffled by the cordiality but apparently deciding to roll with it for now, probably due to the ever present threat of Snape.

 

Draco rolls his eyes.

 

“Hestia Culverton?” he prompts, and gets a blank look in return. “Famous Potions Master, developed the Fever-Reliever – among others, of course. Redesigned the style of cauldrons and revolutionised the potions industry?”

 

Potter still looks utterly blank. Draco heaves a sigh and reaches for the doc leaves, twists them up into a tube and starts slicing them into fine slivers, per the instructions.

 

“It’s not her who makes them today, of course – she died in 1792 – but she taught her son her everything she could before she went, and now, ten generations later, her eight-times-great granddaughter sells cauldrons designed using Hestia’s methods, and they’re still the leading standard today. They come with a pricetag to match, of course, but why make merely _decent_ potions when you can afford the tools you need to make _great_ potions?”

 

“…Right,” Potter says, giving Draco a weird look. “Um. Don’t we need other ingredients?”

 

“You’re welcome to go and fight the masses in the store cupboard if you wish,” Draco informs him loftily, gesturing with his knife to the – sure enough – packed storeroom. “But this potion starts off with all standard ingredients, all of which we have here already, so there’s no need to do battle for the things we won’t need until later. It’s not like Snape will run out of them.”

 

It’s always a fight and a jostle to reach anything in that blasted cupboard if there’s more than two people in there. Draco learned early on to wait it out, go in a few minutes later than everyone else and have the time and leisure to select what he needs without the threat of an elbow to the nose.

 

“…Right,” Potter says again, and reaches for his potions kit.

 

The lesson goes off without a hitch, and Draco and Potter manage to produce a well-functioning Wit-Sharpening Potion – of course they do; it was _Draco_ who was working on it, after all, so he was right there to snap at Potter whenever he was cutting something incorrectly or about to add something too early or stir the potion in the wrong direction – and Snape gives their potion a pass with a curt nod to Draco and a “Perhaps you should work with Mr Malfoy more often, Mr Potter. It seems to have done wonders for your skill level,” to Potter.

 

Potter scowls a little at that (does the boy not recognise a phrase of approval when he hears one?) but says nothing as they begin to pack up their things.

 

Draco’s mind is running over his Charms essay for a final time when Potter shoulders his bag and says, “Well, thanks, I guess.”

 

Draco turns a questioning expression on him.

 

“For the support, I mean,” Potter clarifies, and Draco lets his expression wash over with cool understanding.

 

“Well,” he says, and lifts his own strap over his shoulder. “Just try not to die. It would be an awful embarrassment to the school.”

 

“Embarrassment to the school, yeah, that’s my main concern,” Potter mutters under his breath, but Draco’s already sweeping out of the classroom.

 

“Well that went rather well for you, didn’t it,” Blaise says much later, once they’re safely ensconced in the Charms classroom, surrounded by students who think that shouting the charm louder will have any effect on it’s success.

 

“Better than I expected, even,” Draco returns.

 

“Does your father know what you’re getting up to?” Blaise asks, sweeping his wand in a smooth motion and setting the kettle to singing.

 

“He’ll know when I decide to let him know,” Draco replies easily, and casts the charm to frost the kettle over.

 

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Blaise says, and gives the kettle a teacosy.

 

…

 

Draco makes… subtle inroads, over the next few weeks, getting gradually bolder and bolder.

 

It’s like trying to harness a spooked Alabraxan, he thinks to himself one day, as he carefully navigates the thin line between further endearing himself to Potter without making him suspicious. It’s little things. Things like not insulting him every time he sees him. Things like treating him with cool cordiality, instead of letting Crabbe and Goyle join in on the Potter-baiting that practically the rest of the school is indulging in. Again, they are conspicuous in their absence, and Potter is – fortunately – intelligent enough to gather that Crabbe and Goyle don’t do anything without it being Draco’s idea.

 

The first article about the Champions is published in the Prophet – by that vapid vulture Skeeter – and instead of being indignant and outraged that almost the whole spread is dedicated to Wonder-Boy while the other Champions barely get a mention, as he normally would be, Draco allows himself to be overheard (while he’s “unaware” that Potter is in earshot) casually insulting Skeeter’s talents in everything from her journalism skills to her abilities as a witch.

 

Draco doesn’t approach Potter again, but the Potions lessons turn out to be invaluable for improving interactions between the two of them. Snape either knows what Draco’s doing and approves, or he has his own inexplicable plans in motion, for after that first accidental Potions class spent as partners, Snape insists that they sit at the same table for every lesson thereafter.

 

He claims it’s because he needs one less dunderhead to keep an eagle eye on, and Draco is capable enough to manage acceptable potions when they’re paired, and to keep Potter from blowing anything up when they’re working individually. Draco could try to guess at Snape’s true motives behind having them sit together every lesson, but he wouldn’t guess correctly, and anyway, Draco doesn’t care terribly much since it’s assisting him in his own mission, so he lets it slide without comment.

 

Draco refrains from anything that could be construed as friendly – if he is sure of anything, it’s that Potter must be the first one to make a friendly overture; anything else would be viewed with outright suspicion – but he maintains a cordial and even occasionally helpful manner with the other boy, which does wonders for Draco’s overall plan.

 

“Use the other side of the knife,” Draco says one day, when Potter’s bean pod skids out from under his knife and across the table for the third time.

 

“Um. Why?” Potter asks, making no move to flip the knife over. Draco sighs heavily, and crushes a beanpod neatly beneath his own knife with no dramas.

 

“Because one side of the knife has a slight curve to it,” he explains longsufferingly, as Potter eyes Draco’s pile of neatly crushed beans with envy. “That’s why the beans keep slipping out. The other side is flat. Use that, and the beans won’t skid anywhere.”

 

Potter looks dubious, but he flips the knife over as instructed and tries a bean. It crushes without incident.

 

“Huh,” Potter says, sounding surprised. “Thanks.”

 

Draco grins mentally, but restrains himself to a grunt of acknowledgement out loud.

 

Weasley tries to start a fight with him one day, and it works out splendidly in Draco’s favour. It happens in the courtyard by the west wall of the castle, and Weasley is all uncreative, unoriginal insults that all have a distinctly jealous and possessive flavour to them, which Draco thinks is somewhat rich, considering that a, Draco’s hardly the reason Weasley and Potter’s friendship is in the toilet, and b, the most Draco has managed to achieve with Potter so far is a mutual nod of cordial acknowledgement in the halls and an occasional _thanks_ in Potions.

 

It goes on for some time, and Draco simply leans against a wall and watches in patient amusement as Weasley works himself into a proper huff while Granger watches on from the sidelines and frets, until finally Weasley gets to the crux of the matter and shouts something about how they all know Draco doesn’t really believe Potter didn’t put his name in the goblet _anyway,_ so he can stop pretending that he does. The courtyard is has a smattering of people from various Houses and years, all of whom are watching the interaction intently.

 

Draco stares at him for a moment, allowing incredulous understanding to blossom across his face.

 

“Dear Merlin,” he says, in the tone of someone who’s just had a Great Truth revealed to them.

 

“…What?” Weasley asks, when Draco doesn’t continue, and Draco lets himself smile gleefully.

 

“You actually _do_ believe he did it, don’t you?” he asks, wondrous, then goes on before Weasley has a chance to say anything. “And here I thought you were just having a tantrum because you were jealous that the Boy Who Lived is getting yet another chance at greatness while you’re stuck in the mediocre shadows – an understandable thing to be jealous of, really, what with _your_ prospects for glory and fame – but that’s not it at all, is it? You _actually_ think he put his name in the Goblet.”

 

“Of course he did,” Ron scoffs, and Granger throws an exasperated expression at the ginger. “That thing’s way too smart to be fooled by someone putting in the wrong name; it had to be Harry. I dunno how he got past the age line, sure, but I know he did.”

 

“Huh,” Draco muses thoughtfully, voice ringing clear through the courtyard. “And here was I, thinking you actually knew him well.”

 

He leaves the courtyard before Weasley can respond, his parting comment still echoing on the flagstones around them, and its only as he’s leaving that Draco catches a flash of black hair retreating in the opposite direction ahead of the masses that are sure to shortly follow, and Draco grins to himself. Couldn’t have set it up better himself.

 

…

 

After the altercation with Weasley, Draco doesn’t see Potter at all until the Potions lesson the next day, where there’s finally a breakthrough.

 

“Ron’s a _git_ ,” Potter fumes, throwing himself into his seat at Draco’s table, and Draco blinks at him.

 

“Well,” he says after a long moment. “Yes. He is.”

 

Potter snorts.

 

“This is, however, rather a new realisation for _you,”_ Draco goes on after a moment, leadingly, and Potter sighs gustily and flops against the back of his chair, slouching horribly.

 

“Yeah, well,” he says, and runs a frustrated hand through his already disastrously messy hair. “I guess he’s just being even more gittish than usual today.”

 

Draco raises an eyebrow.

 

“More gittish than he has been these last weeks?” he asks, tone somewhat pointed, and Potter snorts again.

 

“Impressive achievement, huh,” Potter says, and then sucks in a bracing breath and leans forward to reach his bag, pulling his box of standard ingredients out and slapping them on the table. “Anyway, whatever, let’s just – pretend Ron doesn’t exist for now. What are we making today?”

 

Internally, Draco is celebrating. This is progress. This is _significant_ progress. Potter is not only complaining to Draco about his (ex?) best friend, but he’s actively seeking a conversation beyond that, too.

 

“A standard follicle-strengthening potion,” Draco replies, popping the lid on his own supplies box and reaching for the crushed chicken eggshells. “Which you would know if you had bothered to read the syllabus.”

 

When Draco looks up, Potter’s lips are twisted in an amused, jesting smile.

 

“Follicle-strengthening, huh?” he says, the amused twist of his lips threatening to grow into an outright amused grin. “Right up your alley, then – you won’t need to buy any until next month, at least, if we get this right.”

 

A Draco who wasn’t trying to win the friendship of Potter would be offended by that statement, almost-true as it may be, and would spit some kind of return insult about how even if Potter were dunked in a vat of the stuff, it still wouldn’t do anything for _his_ hair.

 

But that is not this Draco.

 

“Please,” he sniffs dismissively, turning his nose up. “As if I’d be caught dead using such a run-of-the mill product. _My_ hair potions are imported from France.”

 

Potter’s lips fall out of their amused twist as they drop open with momentary surprise instead, and he stares in something that might be shock for a long second, and then all of a sudden, the boy is _laughing._

 

Proper, actual laughing, with his eyes closed and his face creased in sheer mirth as he cracks up. Draco’s own lips want to curl at the edges in delight, and he allows them to, since it will only help the situation for Potter to know Draco is amused as well.

 

The entire class is staring – Slytherins and Gryffindors alike – and Draco ignores them all as he runs a hand confidently over his hair, ensuring that not a strand is out of place.

 

“And besides,” he continues, when Potter’s laughter subsides enough that he’ll be able to hear Draco easily. “Anyone who takes _any_ kind of care in their daily appearance knows that hair potions are at their best effectiveness if applied daily. Even if I _did_ use this particular product, I’d need to brew more within the week, not the _month.”_

 

There’s that split second of shocked surprise from Potter again, as though he can’t believe his ears, that Draco is making fun of _himself,_ and then he loses it completely again.

 

Draco allows his own lips to curl fully into an amused smile, and that’s how Snape finds them a moment later when he strides into the room – Potter with one hand wrapped around his stomach as he giggles helplessly, and Draco smiling an entertained smile.

 

The Professor’s step falters in surprise for a moment, and then he recovers himself enough to scowl down at them. Potter hurriedly attempts to stifle his mirth, trying valiantly to plaster a serious, studious expression on his face instead. Draco wants to roll his eyes at him.

 

“If I had known that pairing you with Potter would have you slipping down to his lax standard, I would have rethought this arrangement,” Snape says silkily, and Draco smiles beatifically up at him.

 

“Not at all, Professor,” he assures respectfully. “Potter and I were merely discussing the potion we’ll be brewing in today’s lesson. We’ve decided that he can have the entirety of what we brew today. He is clearly in far more dire need for haircare products than I am, and though Beenid’s Follicle Feast is hardly going have the tensile strength required to tame his ridiculous jungle, it’s at least a start.”

 

Potter cracks up helplessly again.

 

Snape stares at the pair of them for a moment longer, and then snaps, “See that your new-found revelry does not impact on your attention to detail,” and swivels around, heading for his desk and swishing his wand at the board as he goes.

 

“Of course, Sir,” Draco says agreeably.

 

At the end of the lesson, Draco hands the vial of (perfectly brewed, obviously) Follicle Feast to Potter and says imperiously, “Once a day, first thing in the morning. Don’t know how much good it will do, but it certainly can’t _hurt,_ ” and Potter huffs a laugh and is still chuckling as he makes his way out the door, vial held securely in his hand.

 

…

 

Having been paying increased attention to Potter as he has been these last weeks, Draco is not unaware of the mood that hangs around the dark-haired boy like a cloud.

 

The general hostility of the rest of the school has not let up, nor have the articles from Skeeter, and all the while the days trundle by, bringing the date of the First Task ever closer, and Potter’s mood has been getting grimmer and grimmer as time has gone on – snapping at Granger with increased regularity, and withdrawing from most of his other housemates entirely. It’s possible that Potter’s unfettered laughter in Potions was so free because he hasn’t laughed at all in weeks.

 

Draco’s been waiting for an opportunity to come up, however, so he latches onto it as soon as it does. The day after the Potions incident – a Saturday, happily – Draco heads up to the Gryffindor corridor immediately after breakfast, broomstick in hand and Quidditch robes flapping behind him.

 

It’s a bold move, certainly, but Draco feels the odds are in his favour. Quite aside from the fact that Potter’s social circle has dwindled down to merely Granger (who, as mentioned, he’s short of temper with anyway), usually by this time of the year all four Houses have had their Quidditch tryouts and are thoroughly immersed in training the new team for their first matches of the season.

 

 _Draco_ is going stir-crazy, locked up in this blasted castle, and he doesn’t even have the new-found enmity of the whole school on him.

 

Draco strides into the corridor as though it’s his own, and the two First (Second?) Years who had been walking down it in the opposite direction stumble to a stop at the sight of him.

 

“Ah, good,” Draco says. He would have been annoyed if he’d had to wait in the corridor for someone to emerge. “Go and fetch Potter for me.”

 

He doesn’t phrase it as a request, and he _certainly_ doesn’t add please (Malfoy’s say please only to those who are of a higher social standing than them, and even then the word is used sparingly), and the two nameless-Gryffindors squeak and spin around, hurrying back up the corridor to – presumably – fetch Potter.

 

Draco follows at a leisurely pace – keeping a pointedly respectful distance as one of the girls casts a suspicious look over her shoulder and whispers the password to the pink-dressed monstrosity who apparently acts as the Gryffindor Common Room’s doorman – and when the two girls vanish inside the hastily opened-and-closed portrait, Draco leans back against the wall and props his broom up next to him.

 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the portrait cracks open again, and Potter sticks his head out, looking braced for…. something. Hm. Perhaps the other Houses have been making House-calls to cast insults at him; Draco can’t think why else he’d be peering out of his Common Room braced as though expecting an attack. How irritatingly unoriginal of the other Houses. Draco hopes Slytherin wasn’t one of them.

 

Potter catches sight of Draco almost immediately, and looks surprised to find him leaning against the wall in his flying robes with his broom propped up beside him.

 

“Go get your broom, Potter, and change into something you’re comfortable flying in,” Draco says, imperious as usual.

 

Potter blinks, looking slightly baffled. Well at least he’s no longer looking braced.

 

“Um, what?” he says, and Draco rolls his eyes and pushes away from the wall.  

 

“We’re going flying,” he says. “You’ve been moping around this school for weeks like some kind of Kiss-row inmate, and frankly, the depression show is boring me. Also, I’m going out of my mind with restlessness – I haven’t _not flown_ for so long since before I _learnt_ to fly, I _need_ to get out of this castle. So unless you want to borrow one of the school brooms and wear your weird muggle clothes up there, I’d recommend rabbiting back into your little red-and-gold warren and fetching your broom and some different clothes, because you and I are going flying.”

 

“Uh…” Potter says, blinking, like he has no idea what to do with this situation, but then something shifts in his eyes and the corner of his lips turn up just the slightest amount. “Ok, sure,” he says, and without further ado turns around and vanishes back behind that hideous pink-and-lacy excuse for a portrait.

 

It only takes him a few minutes, and then he’s clambering back out into the corridor, broomstick in hand and Quidditch robes on but unlaced.

 

Draco sets off down the corridor without further ado.

 

“I haven’t booked the pitch,” he says, striding along and swinging his broom up to settle it on his shoulder. Potter follows suit, swinging his Firebolt up onto his shoulder securely. “But I figured if there are people on there, we can bully them off. Between my name and your fame, we shouldn’t have any trouble.”

 

“Uh – ” Potter says, sounding disapproving, and Draco rolls his eyes.

 

“It’s a _joke_ Potter, do they not have those in your tower? If there are people on the pitch, we’ll use the lake instead. I quite like practicing new moves over the lake, actually. The threat of falling into the Giant Squid’s open maw adds a certain thrill to the whole thing, I find.”

 

Potter huffs a chuckle, like he’s not entirely sure he’s meant to laugh at that or not. Draco sighs internally. Looks like the conversation will be up to him until he can get Potter to warm up a little.

 

“I honestly can’t believe they expect us to last a year in this place without Quidditch to break the monotony,” he says as they walk along, brooms over their shoulders. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t have _both_. There are a grand total of three Tasks over the course of this ridiculous Tournament, and a mere six Quidditch matches in a year. I’m sure they could have found a way to make a measly _nine events_ fit into the school year. Besides,” he continues, nose in the air. “It would have been generous of us Brits to show our… _esteemed visitors_ what _quality_ Quidditch looks like.”

 

Draco’s tone makes it clear that he thinks _esteemed visitors_ is a generous term, and Potter glances sideways at him.

 

“You do realise that Victor Krum is one of our _esteemed visitors,”_ he says, one dark eyebrow raised.

 

Draco scoffs, scathing.

 

“Please don’t tell me you’re a _fan,”_ he says.

 

Potter shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m a _fan._ But no one can deny that he’s a damn good flyer. And besides – don’t stand there scoffing at me like _you_ wouldn’t ask him for an autograph if given half a chance.”

 

Draco sniffs derisively, nose in the air as he refuses to admit that that’s true. 

 

“We’ve gotten away from the point,” he says instead, magnanimously moving on, and Potter tries to smother a snort of amusement. “The _point is,_ I don’t understand how they thought we wouldn’t all lose our minds, trapped in this draughty old castle without regular breaks for Quidditch practice.”

 

“Not everyone plays Quidditch,” Potter points out.

 

“I don’t know how they survive,” Draco sniffs. “Without Quidditch practice, I’m going to be out there every weekend, starting today. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long in the first place.”

 

He does know, of course. He’s been waiting for a chance to drag Potter along with him. Their interests may not cross over in many areas, but they have Quidditch in common, at least, and Draco plans to milk that for all it’s worth.

 

They say nothing for a moment, and the only sound is the echo of their footsteps on the flagstones.

 

“You know,” Potter muses after a few seconds. “I’ve never actually gone flying just for the fun of it. It’s always been either team practices or actual games.”

 

Draco is so honestly startled that his stride falters.

 

“Really?” he asks, genuinely shocked. “Why on earth not? Don’t you enjoy it?”

 

Draco had thought that was one of the things he knew about the Boy Who Lived without a shadow of doubt. He’s stupidly reckless and never thinks anything through – as Gryffindor as they come, in summary – he’s stupidly lucky, he’s rubbish at Potions, he’s the Headmaster’s Pet, and he adores Quidditch. All known facts about Harry Bloody Potter.

 

“No – I do,” Potter assures, and that mollifies Draco a little. Draco hates being wrong. “I just… I guess it just never occurred to me as an option, that’s all.”

 

Draco slants a baffled look at him.

 

“You’re quite weird,” he says flatly. “You know that, right?”

 

Harry snorts in amusement and shoves halfheartedly at Draco, which – ooh, _progress_. Friendly shoving is a definite step in the right direction.

 

They make their way down to the Pitch, getting startled looks from whichever people they happen to pass in the corridors on the way down, and when they finally arrive, it’s to find that they have no competition; the Pitch is completely empty.

 

“So what shall we do?” Draco asks, taking his broom down from his shoulder and straightening his robes in readiness. “I’d suggest racing, but _someone_ has an unfair advantage in that field.”

 

Potter grins, looking more comfortable than Draco’s seen him in weeks, now that he’s on the Pitch.

 

“Well, actually – there are some things I’ve been _dying_ to try,” he says, and then starts talking about the World Cup, and some of the manoeuvres he’d seen there. Draco enthusiastically joins in, because there had been some _spectacular_ moves that game, and actually, yes, attempting to master them themselves sounds quite fun.

 

Which is how Draco finds himself spinning through the air, exhilaration in his veins and heart in his throat as he and Potter vie to be the first to master one technique or another.

 

Potter’s _good_ on a broom – Draco can easily concede that. Their rivalry hasn’t ebbed a bit, even in the face of their newfound… well, Draco wouldn’t go quite so far as to say _friendship_ yet, it’s still too early for that, but their… lack of enmity, at least, and they gradually move away from trying to perfect certain moves to simply trying to one-up each other, tossing friendly-yet-biting insults that are instantly volleyed back with an extra dose of sass at each other as they do, until they eventually find themselves hurtling towards the ground, back to back, spinning around each other in a tight spiral as they get closer and closer to the hard, grassy plane of the Pitch, neither one willing to be the first to pull up, both wanting to be the one to win the challenge.

 

But Potter is a _lunatic,_ and eventually – with mere metres to spare – Draco folds and yanks the handle of his broom until he’s safely out of the spiral of _death,_ and he turns to see Potter pulling out of the death-defying dive with so little time to spare that the boy’s toes actually graze the grass as he pulls up and out, flying up to join Draco.

 

Potter’s laughing wildly as he approaches, eyes bright and hair a whirlwind, and Draco is gaping at him incredulously.

 

“You’re a _lunatic,”_ Draco gasps, and Potter lets loose a delighted, exhilarated peal of laughter, and does a loop on his broom just because he can, apparently, and because he has excess lunacy to spare.

 

“I haven’t had this much fun on a broom in _years,”_ Potter grins.

 

The boy is windblown and tousled, beaming happily at Draco from under his absurd hair, and Draco finds that his own face is grinning cheerfully back at the other boy without any conscious input or effort from his brain. Huh. Convenient. It’s merely the rush of being in the air and the adrenaline flooding his system, obviously, but the effortless grin will do nothing but assist in his plans to convince Potter that he means this – that his attempts at building a friendship between them truly are genuine – so Draco’s not concerned.

 

“Let’s go to the Lake,” Draco says abruptly, partly because it’s been ages since he’s flown over the Lake, but also because he would like to _not die,_ and he’s starting to fear that flying with Potter may mean death-by-reckless-flying.

 

“I thought you said the Lake adds – what was it? _Adds a certain thrill_ to the whole thing. Is losing a game of Chicken to me not _thrilling_ enough for you?” Potter’s grin is bright and teasing, and Draco isn’t even offended at the mention of him losing the game.

 

“Thrilling, absolutely,” Draco says, rising in the air and drifting in the direction of the Lake. “But staring death in the face as it rushes for me in the form of a grassy knoll isn’t something I’m _quite_ accustomed to. The Lake at least has a semi-soft landing if one of us miscalculates.”

 

“But what about the threat of _falling into the Giant Squid’s great maw,_ or whatever it was you said?” Potter heckles, rising in Draco’s wake and following along.

 

“I have a chance of fighting the Squid off,” Draco sniffs, and gestures balefully to the ground. “I have less chance of escaping death if I were to drive myself into the hard ground at an uncountable speed.”

 

“And here I thought you were a _good_ flyer,” Potter grins, and Draco can take a lot, but he can’t take insults to his flying (caution is not indicative of a lack of talent, thank you very much), so he says, “Ten Galleons says my skills get me to the Lake before you,” and shoots off without another word, streaking towards the brightly sparkling lake as fast as he’s able.

 

Potter yells in outrage behind him, and gives chase.

 

(Draco wins, but the grouchily-relinquished ten galleons aren’t nearly as much of a reward as the way Potter swears that next week, when they do this again, it’ll be Draco eating _Potter’s_ dust, and Draco grins to himself, because Operation Befriend Potter is properly under way.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback, you lovely folk! Now, reminder: I love Ron – but Draco doesn’t, and this is being told from Draco’s perspective, so Ron gets described rather uncharitably whenever he comes up.

“So you’re getting awfully friendly with our resident Boy Wonder,” Pansy says in the Common Room that night.

 

Draco’s not surprised that she’s brought it up; he’s really only surprised that she waited so long, to be honest. He’s glad she held off until they were safely back in the Common Room, at least. Too many unpredictable ears in a Great Hall filled with irrepressibly nosey students. At least here, all the ears are Slytherin. They might all hoard information as gossip for their own gain, but they at least won’t blab about anything they overhear to other Houses. Any resulting gossip will be confined to Slytherin.

 

“I am, aren’t I,” Draco says noncommittally, not bothering to look up from his book, which means that he can observe his Housemates in his peripheral vision without having to move.

 

Sure enough, everyone within earshot is listening hard. They try to be subtle about it, but it’s there in tiny tells – the way they keep their eyes focussed on their homework or books but _oh so casually_ shift in their seats so that their ears are pointed more directly in Draco and Pansy’s direction; the way they continue their conversations but notch up the volume the smallest amount, to make it absolutely clear that they’re _not listening, see, I’m engaged in my own conversation, look;_ the way that they go still for just the tiniest moment before continuing with their activities of Gobstones or chess, but doing so with _just a little_ extra care, so that the chess pieces are just that little bit quieter when they’re moved and they can hear just that little bit more clearly.

 

Draco’s not surprised in the slightest that they’re all listening in. They’re all gossip-hungry little secret-mongers on the best of days, but after Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter came staggering together in through the front doors a good few hours after lunch, both of them soaked to the bone with rather wet broomsticks over their shoulders, Potter laughing hysterically and Draco hissing and spitting like a rain-soaked cat, the whole school has been abuzz with talk.

 

Draco maintains that The Incident was entirely Potter’s fault. The Boy Who Lived, of course, denies all responsibility. _He_ claims that Draco should have seen him coming, and taken appropriate evasive action. Preposterous, of course, and Draco hadn’t hesitated to say so. If _Potter_ weren’t such an _insane_ _madman_ on a broom, then he would have spun to the left, not the right, and then neither of them would have wound up attempting (and failing) to outswim the Giant Squid.

 

Potter, of course, thought the whole thing was great fun, because he is a _certified maniac_ for whom the line between _life threatening danger_ and _a bit of fun_ is far too blurred.

 

Draco hadn’t hesitated to tell him _that,_ either, and he had been thoroughly disgruntled when it had only served to make the lunatic boy laugh harder.

“Ah, come on,” Potter had chuckled, once he’d calmed down enough to speak. “The Squid was only playing, you know that right?”

 

“You have been spending entirely too much time with Hagrid,” Draco had replied. “That thing was trying to _eat us.”_

 

“It was not,” Potter had chuckled, and Draco had scowled.

 

“I fear that my life-expectancy shortens with every day of our acquaintance,” he’d said, which had set Potter off again. The boy is strangely free with his laughter. Draco’s not used to it at all. Slytherins are far more reserved, so to have Potter laughing so easily at things Draco has said is… strange.

 

Anyway. It had taken Draco _hours_ to get the squid-slime out of his hair, and he won’t be forgiving Potter any time soon.

 

“So are you going to tell me what this whole Potter thing is all about, or not?” Pansy asks impatiently, after it becomes clear that Draco’s not going to elaborate any further.

 

Draco lifts his gaze from his book to look at her evenly.

 

“What do _you_ think it’s all about?” he asks, instead of answering.

 

“Well, obviously it’s some sort of plan,” she says, imperious. “But I can’t work out what or why. The only thing I can think is that you’re trying to corrupt him – get him to have less of a hard line against the Dark Arts. But you have to know that will never work. He’s Dumbledore’s little disciple, he’s never going to be swayed from purely white magic.”

 

Of course that’s what she thinks is going on here. As Purebloods, they’ve all been raised to know the importance of things like politics and connections and social standing, but where it’s more of a background thing for Draco that he’s aware of and enacts naturally and without much thought, it’s almost always at the forefront of Pansy’s mind. That Draco is ‘wooing Potter to the Dark side’ _would_ be the first thing she’d think of, primarily because it’s precisely what she would do.  

 

“You might be surprised by that, actually,” Draco murmurs in response to her statement, gaze falling back to his book, because the Dark Arts are not so much _Dark_ as they are shades of grey, some of which are lighter than others, and if Draco knows one thing about Potter, it’s that he’ll do anything to defend his friends. If protecting one of them meant straying into some lightly grey areas, Draco has no doubt that the boy would do it. What’s a tiny bit of dirty-white magic if it means saving a loved one’s life? Nothing, that’s what. And from there, it’s so easy to start slipping into the darker shades of grey.

 

Not that that’s Draco’s plan, of course. If it ends up happening, then obviously Draco will be pleased, but that’s not actually what he’s set out to achieve here. Draco _has_ got a plan, but that’s not it.

 

“So that _is_ your plan,” Pansy says, sitting back in her chair, surprised. “Well. If it works, I have to say I’ll to be impressed. Having Potter sympathetic to a more traditional line of thinking would do wonders, politically. The Potter Seat on the Wizengamot is waiting for him, once he’s of age – and besides, the Potters have been a known Light family for as long as anyone remembers. If the Potter Heir – the _Boy Who Lived,_ no less – were less closed off to the concept of Dark Arts, he’d draw the rest of the public over too.”

 

“That, or the public would ostracize him completely,” Theo pipes up. “You know what the media’s like – any hint of a scandal and they’re all over it. They’d love for him to suddenly develop a tolerance for traditional magic – imagine how many papers they’d sell, and never mind if what they’re saying is accurate or not. Potter being anything less than Dumbledore’s devoted protégé would have them blowing it all out of proportion and denouncing him entirely, spouting that he’s going to become the next Dark Lord.”

 

“Ooh, you’re right!” Pansy says, delighted. “And either way, he’s either on our side entirely or doesn’t have enough social standing to be a problem! Oh, Draco, you _are_ clever.”

 

Draco says nothing, merely inclines his head in Pansy’s direction and goes back to his book, and Pansy – confident and pleased in her deductions about Draco’s plan – twitters a gleeful giggle and goes back to her study.

 

“So I can’t help but notice that you never actually confirmed or denied Pansy’s theory,” Blaise says two or so hours later, when it’s just the two of them in their dormitory, and Draco’s lip curls in a hint of a smirk.

 

Pansy’s smart, but Blaise always has been smarter.

 

“I didn’t, did I,” he says lightly, flipping back his covers and getting into bed, drawing the curtains closed with an easy swish of his wand.

 

“You’re not going to tell me, are you,” Blaise says from the other side of the room, and Draco can hear the amused curl of his lips in the other boy’s voice.

 

Draco’s quiet smirk grows.

 

“Goodnight Blaise,” he says, extinguishing the light at the tip of his wand, and Blaise’s quiet chuckle echoes through the darkened dormitory.

 

…

 

Draco and Potter don’t see each other for most of Sunday – Weasel’s pouting all over the place like a dog who’s tail has been stepped on, though, so Draco assumes Potter’s with Granger; and he himself spends most of the day in a study nook he found on the third floor halfway through last year, doing a final check of his due homework and reading up on the subjects they’re to be covering in this week’s classes – but they pass each other as they’re leaving the Great Hall after dinner, and Potter sends him a friendly nod and a fleeting smile.

 

“Hey Malfoy,” he says casually as he passes, and ignores the startles and stares it garners him from everyone within earshot. “Get all the Squid gunk out of your hair yet?”

 

Draco lifts his chin haughtily.

 

“ _I_ did,” he sniffs. “Which is more than can be said for you, apparently.”

 

Potter – whose hair is indeed in an even worse state of disarray than usual today – laughs easily and runs his hand through his hair, perhaps in an attempt to tame it. It ends up looking worse. Draco tries to hide his wince.

 

“Yeah, well, I’ve given up on it, to be honest,” Potter says with a grin and a careless shrug. “It does what it wants. That potion we brewed has been completely useless so far.”

 

“You’re a walking disaster,” Draco says, and Potter laughs, turning to continue on his way up the corridor towards the stairs, Granger trailing behind him.

 

“Later Malfoy,” Potter calls behind him, and Draco contains his grimace at the clearly Muggle farewell.

 

Granger is giving Draco a hard stare over her shoulder as she follows Potter up the corridor, and Draco raises a bland eyebrow at her in a silent question.

 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him, then turns and flounces away with a huff.

 

Draco’s lips twitch in amusement.

 

“Mister Malfoy,” intones a silky voice behind him, and Draco knows who it is before he even turns around.

 

“Professor,” he greets, as all those who’d lingered in the corridor to watch the marvel of Potter and Malfoy talking scatter to the four winds.

 

“Come with me,” Snape says, expressionless and toneless, and then he turns on his heel to sweep off down the corridor. Draco, who suspects he knows what’s coming, gives a mental shrug and follows.

 

They get to the man’s office in short order, and Snape strides through to stand behind his desk as Draco follows and ambles casually over to the collection of various animals in jars of preserving potion that line the walls.

 

“What are you doing?” Snape asks, once the door has swung itself silently closed behind them, and Draco doesn’t stop in his reaching for a preserved bug.

 

“Looking at this billywig, Sir,” he answers, deliberately obtuse as he takes the jar in question down from the shelf to inspect the billywig closely through the liquid. Avoid eye-contact with Snape. Always avoid eye-contact with Snape when you don’t want to tell him the truth.  “I’ve never seen one of these live – have you? The stingers have gotten _awfully_ expensive.”

 

“ _Draco,”_ Snape says, pointed and irritated, and ah. First name basis, is it? So Snape wants him to feel comfortable and at ease, then; as though he’s talking to a friend of his father’s, and not his Head of House. “Don’t be evasive. You know what I’m asking about. What are you up to with Potter?”

 

“Why, Sir,” Draco says, placing the dead billywig back onto the shelf and reaching for the preserved Quintaped leg. “Can’t one student make friends with another student?”

 

“Not when the students in question have been actively at each other’s throats since the moment they met, no,” Snape says, voice hard and annoyed.

 

“Mm, shame, that,” Draco says, turning the Quintaped jar over in his hands so he can inspect the leg from a different angle. “Imagine if we’d channelled all that energy into friendship instead. He’s a brilliant Quidditch player. I could have been training against him for years and teaching all his moves to the Slytherin team if we’d been on better terms.”

 

“When I allowed you to remain his partner in Potions, it was because I thought it would be a good challenge for you to work with someone as difficult as Potter, and a blessing to my classroom for someone as abysmal as Potter to work with someone who might prevent him from melting cauldrons, but now I’m wondering if allowing the pairing was a good decision after all.”

 

“Don’t be absurd,” Draco scoffs, not turning around. “If that were the case, you’d’ve paired me with Longbottom. Potter’s rubbish at Potions, but he’s never actually melted a cauldron. Longbottom, on the other hand, is a hazard to everyone in that room. The Department of Mysteries should employ him to accidentally create all kinds of new poisons. No – whatever your reasoning was, it wasn’t that.”

 

“What do you think my reasoning was, then?” Snape asks, voice silky.

 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly guess,” he replies, flippant. “I don’t doubt that you’re running more schemes than the entirety of Slytherin House. I didn’t bother trying to decode your reasoning.”

 

“Foolish,” Snape snaps, because as much as he claims to hate teaching, he never passes on an opportunity for a lesson. “A man’s reasoning for doing something tells you much about him, not in the least what he may be planning to do next. _That’s_ why I allowed your pairing with Potter. Because I desire to know what it is you’re hoping to achieve with this scheme of yours, and I wished to see what you would do next.”

 

“Hm,” Draco says, putting the Quintaped leg back and browsing the line of jars for something else interesting. “Pansy thinks I’m up to something too. She’s since worked it all out, of course, because she knows me and my methods so well. Good thing I don’t mind everyone in Slytherin knowing that I’m grooming Potter to be my secret political weapon, since she announced it to the whole Common Room.”

 

“Does your father know of your grand political plans?” Snape asks mildly, and Draco’s lips twist.

 

“Ah, my father,” he says, tapping a bottle of grindylow eyes to make them bob lightly in their liquid. “You know – my father trusts you. Tells me about what a great asset you were in the war, how much you did for the Dark Lord. Praises your skills as an actor even as he mocks Dumbledore’s naivety in believing your ‘new leaf’ act.”

 

“And you?” Snape enquires, politely dangerous. “You don’t trust my allegiances, I gather. You believe your father is mistaken in his opinion of me? I’m sure he’ll be interested to know that.”

 

Draco scoffs lightly.

 

“He’ll be pleased to know that,” he counters. “ _Never trust someone on the word of a third party._ It was one of the earliest lessons he taught me. But as to whether or not I trust you – I trust that you were loyal to the Dark Lord once. But I also know that the Dark Lord has been gone for a good number of years, now, and I know that the only thing that stood between you and Azkaban when the war ended was Dumbledore. With the Dark Lord long since vanished and Dumbledore your constant shield against answering for your actions back then, I do have to wonder at the state of your allegiances now, yes.”

 

There’s silence for a long moment.

 

“So I gather you won’t be divulging your plan to me, then,” Snape says eventually, tone cool and silky calm.

 

“Why does everyone assume I _have_ a plan?” Draco asks, voice suffused with faux-innocence and fake-sincerity. “Perhaps I merely fought with Potter so viciously all these years because what I actually wished was that we were friends. Is it so hard to believe that I may just want a friend, Professor?”

 

“I may believe that earnest sincerity from Greengrass, Mister Malfoy, but not from you,” Snape says, long-suffering. “Very well. Since you’re so determined to distrust me, you are dismissed.”

 

“Thank you Professor,” Draco says, politely, and turns to head for the door.

 

“Draco,” Snape calls, just before he leaves, and Draco pauses in the doorway and waits for him to continue. “Whatever it is you’re doing, be careful.”

 

“Of course, Professor,” Draco replies, and leaves the office without another word.

 

…

 

The next few days pass fairly uneventfully.

 

Potter continues to greet Draco whenever they pass each other with a friendliness that has the rest of the school staring – because the novelty hasn’t worn off, apparently.

 

The cordiality from Draco seems to have spread to the rest of the Slytherins – in their year, at least – in that most of them are now ignoring Potter, instead of actively antagonising him. Some are doing this because they’re still under instruction from Draco to be either polite or silent (Crabbe and Goyle), some of them because they like Draco’s ‘plan’ of getting Potter onside and don’t want to compromise it (Pansy), and some because they’re just curious to see where this all goes and are just watching quietly from a distance (Blaise).

 

The Gryffindors, however, seem to be taking the newfound affability between the two of them with more shock than anyone else – and more hostility too, which Draco’s not ashamed to say he’s baffled by.

 

The rest of his House have all but cast their precious Boy Who Lived out, by this point – the only ones that are still talking to him, to Draco’s knowledge, are Granger and the Weasley Hell-Twins One and Two. So given that the rest of the House is treating Potter as the resident pariah, it’s quite inexplicable that Draco is suddenly the target of so many _oh so accidental_ elbows and shoulders whilst in the corridors.

 

What do they care if Draco’s suddenly friendly with Potter? They don’t even _like_ Potter, so what does it matter if Draco’s ‘corrupting’ him?   _Honestly._ Illogical, the lot of them.

 

The jostling in the corridors doesn’t bother him, of course. It’s a good excuse to practise his stinging jinx, if nothing else, so there are a fair few Gryffindors walking around with satisfyingly bright red welts that won’t fade for a good few hours. And if it _were_ ever to escalate into something more than rough elbows and well-aimed book bags, Draco wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself, and he has every faith in his ability to do so.

 

Weasel is probably the one who’s taking the whole situation with the worst grace, however.

 

Draco’s used to being glared by the splotchy redhead any times their paths cross, but the other boy has taken it up a spectacularly high notch since Operation Befriend Potter was enacted, and now Draco can’t even eat breakfast without the redhead glaring at him hatefully across the Hall for the entirety of the meal. Draco honestly doesn’t know what his problem is. _He’s_ the one refusing to talk to Potter, not the other way around, so why the pathetic excuse for a wizard is glaring at _Draco_ is just beyond comprehension.

 

(Not that Draco’s not enjoying it, of course. Even if Weasley’s ire with him is completely misplaced, it’s still _fun._ )

 

Despite all that, however, nothing interesting happens until Wednesday afternoon.

 

Classes are done for the day, there are a few hours until dinner, and Draco heads straight from Transfiguration to his study nook on the third floor. It’s a little alcove just off the end of one of the corridors – a nook hidden behind a large tapestry that has enough room for three or and a window that stretches almost floor to ceiling that provides both light and delightful warmth, when the sun is at the right angle. 

 

Draco discovered it part-way through last year, and – when furnished with a couple of transfigured cushions – it makes for a perfect study spot that is free from both noise and Housemates.

 

Draco ducks inside easily and transfigures three broken quills that he keeps around for precisely this reason into a soft quilt and a pair of cushions, and settles in to do a few hours homework before tea. 

 

He’s only been there about an hour when there’s a scuffing sound from just outside the nook. Draco looks up sharply just in time to see the tapestry get tugged sideways, and his mouth drops open with surprise when Potter is revealed, standing out in the corridor and peering into the nook.

 

“Ah,” the Gryffindor boy says, shoving something into his bag. “There you are.”

 

“There I – ” Draco echoes, startled, because not once since he’s been using this alcove has he been discovered – and if he’d had to guess who it would be to find him here, it certainly wouldn’t have been Potter. “How did you find me?”

 

“Oh, you know,” Potter says, decidedly shifty, and Draco narrows his eyes, instant suspicion overtaking his surprise. “Asked around. Looked. You know. The usual way of finding a person.”

 

“Mm-hm,” Draco says, thoroughly unconvinced, but with no idea on where to go from there on finding out how his nook was discovered. And besides; there’s something more pressing than _how_ Potter found him.

 

“You were looking for me?” Draco asks.

 

“Yeah,” Potter says, and takes Draco’s question as permission to come in, apparently, since he steps around the tapestry and drops his bag on the edge of Draco’s quilt as he makes his way over to the window to peer out. Draco stares at him.

 

“Merlin, great view from here,” the boy says, practically to himself, either unaware of Draco’s staring or pointedly ignoring it.

 

 _Unaware of it,_ it turns out, since Potter turns away from the window a moment later and startles to find Draco staring at him.

 

Draco raises his eyebrows and glances pointedly around the study nook and then back to Potter in a silent question, and Potter sighs heavily and sinks down to sit on the opposite side of Draco’s quilt without so much as a by your leave.

 

 _Oh, sure, make yourself comfortable,_ Draco thinks without much heat, as Potter gestures vaguely towards the left and explains his presence here.

 

“Ron’s making out like he doesn’t get Flitwick’s assignment so Hermione will help him with it, the twins are off doing who-knows-what somewhere, and Neville’s studying with Dean and Seamus, so,” he says, and then shrugs like it isn’t a big deal.

 

Ah. So his only four friends in the world were otherwise occupied ( _four_ friends, including Longbottom – who knew?), so Potter sought Draco out.

 

 _Oh,_ it’s _Christmas._

 

“Are you sure Weasel’s only making out that he doesn’t get it?” Draco asks casually, not letting any of his glee show in his face or voice. “It’s entirely possible that he _does_ need the whole assignment explained to him.”

 

Potter snorts.

 

“Might be,” he replies easily, sitting back and leaning against the window. “Either way, I was going stir crazy in there anyway. You don’t mind if I hang out here until dinner, right?”

 

Does Draco _mind?_ Draco is _dancing._ Internally, sure, but dancing nonetheless. This is _great._ Potter has actively sought Draco out as a defence against either loneliness or boredom – either option bodes well for Draco. This is all progressing more brilliantly than he could have dreamed.

 

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says with a casual wave of his hand, and Potter shoots him a quick grin.

 

“What is this place, anyhow?” Potter asks, hooking a hand through the strap on his bag and riffling through it.

 

“I do my study here, mostly,” Draco says, marking his page in his Potions textbook and drawing his scattered papers into neater piles. “The Common Room is often too loud, and besides – candlelight is great for setting a romantic mood, but not great if you actually need to see what it is you’re reading or writing.”

 

“Candlelight?” Potter asks quizzically. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Why don’t you just sit by a window?”

 

“Because our Common Room is in the dungeons, Potter,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “Below-ground. All our windows look out into the Lake. Which is wonderfully novel when you’re in First Year, but somewhat impractical when it comes to direct sunlight.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Potter muses, frowning a little as he fishes a book out of his bag. “I’d forgotten that.”

 

Draco’s gaze goes sharp.

 

“You’d forgotten that?” he asks. “What do you mean, _forgotten_ _that_? That should have been brand new information for you. Been snooping into other Houses’ Common Rooms recently, have you?”  

 

“No!” Potter says, far too quickly and with a slight flush to his cheeks, and Draco raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“Part of me, out of pity, wants to teach you how to lie convincingly, but the other part of me finds it far too convenient to have you be so useless at it,” he says, and Potter flushes.

 

“I can lie,” Potter grumbles, petulant.

 

“Of course you can,” Draco lies, and Potter shoots him a glare, then flips his book open pointedly.

 

It’s a battered copy of _An A-Z Compendium of Quidditch Moves, and Their Histories_ that Draco guesses Potter borrowed from the Library, given its well-battered condition, and the sight of the book makes Draco realise something.

 

“Say, Potter,” he says, and he can’t actually believe he hasn’t asked this yet, actually. This is a very important question, and one he should have asked _days_ ago. When they were flying around the Pitch and the Lake like _lunatics_ would have been a perfect time, for instance. “What’s your team?”

 

Potter glances up from his book, a bewildered expression on his face. 

 

“My… team?” he asks after a moment, blinking blankly. “Um. Hogwarts. Isn’t it?”

 

It’s Draco’s turn to blink blankly, before realisation sweeps through him.

 

“Not for the _Tournament,_ you moron,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Professional Quidditch League. Who do you follow?”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Potter says, understanding. “Oh, I uh – don’t actually have a team. Don’t really follow professional Quidditch.”

 

Draco stares, aghast. This is like the “I don’t play for fun” thing all over again.

 

“What do you _mean_ you don’t follow professional Quidditch?” he demands, one-part outraged, one-part stunned, all-parts horrified.

 

Potter shrugs.

 

“It’s just another one of those things that never came up, I suppose,” he says, as though it’s hardly a big deal at all.

 

“You are the oddest wizard I’ve ever encountered, Potter,” Draco says flatly, taking out his wand and retrieving a blank piece of parchment from his bag, because this is a situation that needs _immediate rectification_. “And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

 

Potter chuckles anyway, because see earlier observation: _odd._

“Now,” Draco says, pointing and casting and pointing and casting at the parchment in front of him until it’s covered in a myriad of little colour-filled squares. “This is how we’re going to do this; it’s a Black Family tradition. This is how my mother chose her team – and your Godfather as well, most likely – and it’s how I chose mine and it’s how you’re going to choose yours. Right. Pick your favourite colour combination.”

 

Potter sets aside his book and takes the parchment, settling it on the quilt in front of him, and he studies it for a moment before hitching an eyebrow in Draco’s direction.

 

“You just know all the team’s colours off by heart?” he asks, slightly amused.

 

Draco sniffs haughtily at him.

 

“By the time I’m through with you, you’ll not only know all the team names and their colours, but all their players, _and_ their player’s stats to boot.

 

“As if you know all that yourself,” Potter snorts, and oh, ye of little faith.

 

“I do,” Draco assures him sternly. “I’d get you to test me, but you don’t yet know Rudyard from Redwing yourself, so there’d be little point.”

 

“Merlin,” Potter says, looking a bit surprised. “You actually do, don’t you. Know all that.”

 

“I said I did, didn’t I,” Draco replies, sniffing imperiously again, and Potter huffs a surprised laugh.

 

“You and Ron really are more similar than you realise,” he says, and Draco’s mouth drops open in shocked outrage.

 

“Well,” he says sourly a moment later, once he’s recovered enough to speak. “Clearly we _aren’t,_ since Weasley’s gone this entire time without bothering to give you a proper education. I bet you can’t even name a single team.”

 

“I can!” Potter replies, one-part earnest and one-part offended. “Chudley Canons. They’re… these ones.”

 

He points to the ghastly orange patch that Draco squeezed onto the last bit of parchment, giving the team as little room as possible without actually leaving them off, because the Canons might be a joke, but they are still – regrettably – in the League, and Draco does value accuracy.

 

Draco sighs long-sufferingly.

 

“They’re the Weasel’s team, aren’t they,” he says, and it’s not a question. Potter chuckles at his expression.

 

“They are,” he confirms. “I could probably even name a few of the players, if I tried.”

 

Draco points a stern finger at him.

 

“You are _not_ choosing the Canons,” he says in a Tone of No Argument. “I won’t let you. They are a disgrace to the League, and they should all have their brooms taken off them. If you insist on supporting them, well I am sorry to inform you that I refuse to be seen in public with one of their supporters, so our association will have to end here. It’s a matter of pride.”

 

At that, Potter laughs outright. He really is free with his laughter, this boy. It catches Draco off guard every time. Must be a Gryffindor thing.

 

“Don’t worry,” Potter says, still grinning (another thing he’s free with – his expressions. You never have to guess what he’s thinking; it’s right there on his face). “I wasn’t planning on picking them. I’d like the chance to actually _celebrate_ my team, instead of being subjected to constant disappointment and shame.”

 

Draco allows his lip to curl at the edge.

 

“We might make a decent Quidditch fan out of you yet, Potter,” he says.

 

Potter rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning as he does it, and then he’s leaning back over the coloured parchment again.

 

“So I just – pick whatever colours I like best?” he asks, and Draco nods.

 

“Be sure it’s a colour scheme that suits you,” he warns, stern. “You’ll be wearing their scarves at every game you attend, so it would be best if they weren’t colours that make you look like a washed out vampire victim.”

 

“Well in that case I’m _definitely_ not going with the Canons,” Potter mutters, eyes on the options in front of him.

 

“It’s a genuine wonder that anyone does,” Draco says.

 

Potter ponders the colours for about half a minute more, and Draco waits patiently. It’s an important decision, after all, and not one that can be taken back later.

 

“I pick… these ones,” Potter says eventually, pointing at… huh. The sky-blue and the dark-blue square.

 

“That one?” Draco asks, not letting anything colour his tone. “Make sure you’re certain, you can’t change your mind later. As my mother told me, _Quidditch teams are for life._ ”

 

Potter eyes the square for a moment longer, and then nods decisively.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure. This one. Who are they?”

 

“Harry Potter, I hereby introduce you to… the Tutshill Tornadoes. Congratulations.”

 

Potter grins.

 

“I can live with that name,” he says agreeably. “So who’s yours, then?”

 

Draco lets himself grin, and reaches out to point at the blue-and-blue square.

 

“No way,” Potter says, when he realises, and Draco nods. “I picked the same team as you?”

 

“The very same,” Draco confirms. “Fortunate for you, really, since now you won’t have to endure being beaten by my team.”

 

“Oh, they’re good are they?” Potter asks, grinning, and Draco casts him a long-suffering expression.

 

“Yes _obviously_ they’re good, _I_ barrack for them.”

 

“Oh is _that_ why they’re good,” Potter teases, leaning back on his elbows. “It’s got nothing to do with the players or their strategies; it’s all because you’re up in the crowd cheering for them, is it?”

 

“ _Obviously_ ,” Draco sniffs, disdainful, and Potter laughs again.

 

“Right, so are you gonna tell me who the players are, then, or what?”

 

Draco grins, and settles in for the long-haul.

 

They’re late to dinner, walking through the doors of the Great Hall together before trading a farewell wave and heading to their respective tables, oblivious to the stares that they’re instantly pinned with (genuinely oblivious on Potter’s part, wilfully oblivious on Draco’s), but Potter’s got all the names of the First Line players down pat by then, and a most of the reserves, so it was time well spent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s be real, our boys were always going to bond over Quidditch. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all your feedback on this, guys, you’re all great. Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omgosh, you lot are lovely. LOVE. LY.

Things had been going well with Operation Befriend Potter in the wake of their afternoon spent working on various Quidditch moves, but they improve even further in the wake of Potter uncovering Draco’s study spot and receiving a crash course in Quidditch League.

 

After that, things are positively _easy._

 

Potter, if he’s not sitting with Granger –

 

(which is often, as Weasley seems to be intentionally monopolising her still, even as both of them glare viciously at Draco whenever he’s within their vicinity – neither of them have spoken to him yet, but honestly, Draco’s just _waiting_ for Granger to corner him, because he’s in no doubt that a threatening talk from her is simply waiting for the opportune moment to strike)

 

– the Gryffindor begins to sit with Draco in any class they share, and joins him more often than not in the study nook on the Third Floor in the afternoons after class. It’s more pleasant in the study nook, Draco gathers from various dropped comments and unanswered questions, than in the Gryffindor Common Room for Potter at the moment.

 

The conversation between them is surprisingly effortless and ranges from the continued League lessons (Potter’s a quick learner, thankfully, and he’s picked everything up well so far) through to general Quidditch talk, school work, random interests, and debates about the best and worst places in Hogsmeade. (Potter hasn’t yet had the misfortune of being introduced to Madam Pudifoots. Draco tells him that if he’s lucky, he’ll escape his school years without _ever_ having to suffer the place. Pansy dragged him there last year, and the memory of it is still enough to make him wince.)

 

It’s simple and easy, and Draco actually finds himself – much to his surprise – genuinely enjoying himself.

 

Of course, the ease and simplicity of it all couldn’t last forever.

 

The weeks have been marching on since the start of term, and with every day that passes, the First Task is getting closer.

 

Potter seems to have a good ally in Granger, who – when she can escape Weasley’s possessive clutches – has apparently been researching all previous Tournaments looking for a clue of what the First Task might be.

 

Draco could have told her in an instant, of course, but he only finds out that she and Potter were unaware of Tournament Tradition after the boy announces Hermione’s findings and Draco fails to react with any kind of surprise.

 

Perhaps it’s because he grew up in a traditional Pureblood household, but Draco had thought everyone knew that the First Task is always a beast challenge of some kind. If Potter’s lucky, Draco tells him, they’ll have him face a dementor. He seems to have no issue with those, these days, if memory serves.

 

Knowing Potter’s luck, though, it will turn out to be something like a nundu.

 

In the wake of her discovery, Granger has devised a study plan for Potter which casts a wide net over a variety of offensive and defensive spells that may come in handy for the Task, but it’s a bit like catching Snitches in the dark, not knowing precisely what the beast will be. After all – methods for dealing with a sphynx are very different from those you’d need when dealing with an acromantula.

 

If it were down to just Potter and Granger, then Potter may very well have wound up walking into the First Task with no clue what was in store for him.

 

 _Fortunately_ for Potter, he’s got Draco now.

 

The letter from Draco’s mother arrives as per Narcissa’s usual schedule on Saturday morning at breakfast, and with it is the usual collection of Manor-cooked sweets and treats, as well as the _un_ usual inclusion of a note from his father.

 

Lucius isn’t much one for writing notes to his son – he’s ordinarily far too busy for such things, and unless he has something of specific import to say, leaves the letter writing duties to his wife. With that in mind, as soon as Draco spots the letter from Lucius, he forgoes his mother’s letter and unfolds his father’s first instead.

 

It greets him with a short, perfunctory _Draco,_ written in his father’s neatly elegant hand, and then goes on to – at first glance – chat aimlessly about the various goings on in Lucius’ life. To almost anyone else reading the letter, it would come across as a simple father-to-son update about what’s happening at home.

 

Draco, however, was taught to read between the lines just as much as he was ever taught to read the lines themselves, so when Lucius talks lightly about an event his mother is hosting next week for some close friends, followed by a paragraph that mentions in passing the November sitting of the Wizengamot, Draco interprets that there is a vote coming up (for a law, perhaps, or some refined regulation) that Lucius has strong views on, and he and Narcissa are hosting a politics party with the various families closely aligned with House Malfoy, in the hopes of ensuring their vote. The Nott’s will be in attendance, most likely, as will the Parkinsons and the Avery’s. Crabbe and Goyle’s parents are a given, of course, but they’ll vote however Lucius tells them to. They’re much like their sons, in that way.

 

That, of course, is interesting – Draco always enjoys hearing of his father’s political movements, as it’s a guideline for how Draco himself hopes to one day navigate the political field – but the part that is of far more interest is the one that discusses some of the casual goings on at the Ministry.

 

As usual, the important information is buried in amongst a mass of innocuous-sounding updates.

 

Higgins from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is engaged to be married to a witch from France, and Bellgort will take over his role for the month of his honeymoon. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is having an internal review after one of their staff managed to turn himself into a teapot after mishandling a charmed sugar spoon, and it was four days before anyone found him. The Obliviator specialists within the Department of Mysteries are putting together a team of representatives to speak at an International Statute of Secrecy Conference to be held in Jamaica in January.

 

And Amos Diggory – Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – is on an extended period of leave until the end of November, as per orders from the Minister himself. He’s been overworking himself, apparently – so much so that the Minister had to _order_ him to take some of the holiday leave he’d accrued over the last few years.

 

In addition to that interesting little snippet, Lucius mentions (again – buried in amongst bits and pieces of information on a variety of other Ministry goings on and casual day-to-day updates) that he had recently bumped into Helen Sholto of the Department of Magical Transportation for the first time in several months. They weren’t able to talk for long – she had been overdue in a meeting with various representatives from the Romanian Ministry.

 

Various representatives from the _Magical Creatures Control_ Department of the Romanian Ministry.

 

Lucius goes on to mention – in an unrelated paragraph – that after bumping into Helen he’d gone to speak to Ludo Bagman about securing early seats to next year’s Quidditch Grand Final (one can never get in too soon to secure quality seats to the Final), but found his office to be empty.

 

Lucius chatters about a variety of other bits and pieces, and Draco scans through them but finds nothing of genuine import in the rest of the letter.

 

No – the important bit has already been covered.

 

Amos Diggory, father of one of the four Champions, on enforced leave from work – on enforced leave from his _Department_ , which just _happens_ to be the Department involved in all things magical beast related –until just after the First Task.

 

Well that alone is nothing terribly huge – as already stated, almost everyone knows that the First Task is always a magical creature challenge, so it makes sense to remove Diggory until the Task’s completion.

 

Some might wax lyrical about how he would have far too much honour to use his position as the Head of the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to his advantage – to use it to, say, find out what the First Task would be and feed that information to his son, so he could be better prepared. The man is a Hufflepuff, after all, and Hufflepuffs are all about fairness.

 

And, yes, Amos Diggory is a quintessential Hufflepuff. But he is also a father, and if it were up to Draco, he wouldn’t wait to find out which trait was stronger – Amos’ Hufflepuff sense of fairness, or his fatherly sense of protection.

 

No – far better to remove Diggory from the equation entirely, and then there can be no accusations of cheating or unfair advantages.

 

But the snippet about Helen Sholto – now _that_ is interesting.

 

Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, and she had a meeting with delegates from the Romanian Department of Magical Creatures Control.

 

The dots aren’t hard to connect.

 

It’s not like Hogwarts keeps dangerous creatures in its back fields (with the notable exception for anything that oaf Hagrid has a hand in), so whatever creature is intended for the Tournament would have to be shipped in.

 

How do you ship several dangerous creatures across international borders for the purpose of a competition, avoiding not only the attention of Muggles, but also the attention of the greater European public? Through the Department of Magical Transportation, in conjunction with the source-country’s Magical Creatures Department – and, of course, with the likely-yet-unconfirmed assistance from the Head of Department of Magical Games and Sports, who happened to be absent from his office at the time of said meeting.

 

And what dangerous creature does Romania specialise in?

 

Dragons.

 

Draco sits back on his stool, breakfast long-since forgotten and practically cold by his elbow.

 

Dragons.

 

The first task is dragons.

 

Of course it is. What else _could_ it be in a Tournament designed to try it’s very hardest to kill its participants. _Honestly._

 

_………………_

 

“Dragons,” Potter says when Draco tells him later that morning. “The first task is _dragons.”_

 

They’re in a disused classroom, safely behind a magically locked door that’s been shielded with a good few privacy spells to boot. There are curious ears everywhere, all the time, and given that this is knowledge that technically neither of them should have, it would be rather foolish to have the discussion in the open, so when Potter had arrived in the Entrance Hall in his flying gear and with his broom over one shoulder, ready for their weekly Quidditch session, Draco had instead herded him into a nearby room and handed him his father’s letter.

 

He’d then had to _explain_ the letter, of course, because Potter the quintessential Gryffindor couldn’t read between the lines if his life depended on it – case in point, really, as his life may very well depend on it in this case.

 

“They want to make a flashy first impression, I imagine,” Draco says in reply to Potter’s flatly incredulous statement, and Potter laughs, slightly hysterical.

 

“If by _flashy first impression_ you mean _killing all the Champions_ in a variety of messy, melty ways before any of us even finish the first bloody task,” he says, voice pitched just a tad higher than usual.

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Draco muses, and Potter blanches slightly.

 

“Fantastic,” he says flatly, and moves over to the nearest desk to slump into the chair there, running a hand over his face.

 

“It could be worse, of course,” Draco says, moving to a desk of his own and leaning one hip against it.

 

Potter sends him an incredulous look.

 

“What could possibly be worse than finding out that I’m going to have to _fight a dragon?”_ he asks.

 

“ _Not_ finding out you have to fight a dragon,” Draco replies immediately. “You have time to prepare now, don’t you? Imagine if you’d shown up on the day with no idea of what was in store and only a thin scattering of defensive spells to draw on and no species-specific plan. It would have been a disaster.”

 

Potter looks slightly ill at the thought.

 

“Of course,” Draco says thoughtfully, mentally going over all the ways this could still go wrong, “it could still be a disaster.”

 

Potter groans and drops his head into his arms on the desk, and Draco blinks at the crumpled mess of flying robes and horrifically tangled hair ( _honestly,_ does the boy even _own_ a hairbrush?).

 

Well. That attitude most certainly will not do. Making the Golden Boy go pale with trepidation may be fun, but they’re hardly going to manage to come up with a plan of attack for this First Task unless Potter bucks up a little.

 

“So then,” Draco says bracingly. “How do you beat a dragon?”

 

Potter extracts his head from his arms enough that he can peer at Draco from below his fringe, his melodramatic woe broken by a sliver of hope.

 

“I don’t know – how do you beat a dragon?”

 

Draco smacks his lips and bounces on the balls of his feet.

 

“No idea,” he says, and then steps over and tugs Potter up by his arm. “But lying around contemplating your upcoming doom isn’t going to cut it. This calls for drastic measures.”

 

Potter allows himself to be man-handled as Draco starts tugging him out of the classroom. The boy is still holding onto his Firebolt, and he gives it a long, sad look as Draco drags him down the corridor, like he’s wishing he could go back to this morning before Draco got his letter. And really, Draco would rather be flying too, but priorities.

 

“What kind of drastic measures?” Potter asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice, Draco notes with approval.

 

“ _Drastic_ ones. Are you prepared for this? Because this is the one and only time you will ever hear these words come out of my mouth; are you ready?”

 

Potter nods, wary.

 

“We’re going,” Draco says, and then has to pause for a moment to get his expression of distaste back under control, “to the _Library.”_

_………………_

 

They do indeed go to the Library.

 

And the Library proves to be next to _useless._

 

“I’m going to die,” Potter says into the pages of the book he’s dropped his head onto.

 

“You’re not going to die,” Draco says distractedly, and then tosses the book he’d just been flipping through back onto the table with a sneer. “This place is _useless,”_ he snarls. “If I were at the Manor’s library, I could just announce _How do I defeat a dragon_ and then next thing, I’d have a pile of helpful books on the subject.”

 

Potter peers up at Draco through his hopelessly messy fringe.

 

“You’re having me on,” he says, and Draco turns an affronted expression on him.

 

“I am not,” he assures heatedly. “Why do you think I never bother coming to this abhorrent excuse for a collection of books? The service is dreadful, and the quality of the content even more so.”

 

Potter snorts slightly.

 

“Don’t let Hermione hear you say that. She’ll feel honour bound to defend this place. It’s her favourite part of the castle.”

 

Draco sneers at another useless testimony in another useless book (Gwendolyn Mayfair was trying to steal recently hatched eggshells – very useful in potions, dragon eggshell – from a nest that turned out not to be as unguarded as she’d thought. It’s the fifth time Draco’s read the tale, and each time, the story has been slightly different. In this one, Gwendolyn was eaten in one mouthful. So far she’s been swallowed in one mouthful; burnt to a cinder; bitten, but survived several days before the venom took her; and in one memorable version, the newly hatched dragons divided her up evenly between them before devouring her. But none of that matters because whichever version is correct, Gwendolyn Mayfair _died,_ which is an outcome they’re trying to avoid here, so therefore her multiple testimonies are completely useless).  

 

“If this pathetic library is Granger’s version of Utopia, then she needs to get out and see more magical libraries,” he says, tossing the book aside carelessly to join the rest of the _Useless_ pile, and then continues his derisive tirade. “This one really doesn’t even begin to come up to standard. Though really, what did I expect. It’s a _school_ library.”

 

“Are there other magical libraries?” Potter asks, and Draco blinks, looking over at him.

 

“Are there – ” he echoes. “Yes, of course there are. Tell me you don’t think this place is the sum total of all the books in the Wizarding world. Was I not _just_ speaking about my library?”

 

“No – I didn’t mean private collections,” Potter clarifies, rolling his eyes. “I meant public libraries. Is that a thing that exists? I know Muggles have them, but it’s never occurred to me whether or not wizards have them too.”

 

“Oh,” Draco says. Yet another gap in Wonder Boy’s education, _honestly,_ what _have_ the Gryffindor’s been teaching him? Does he even know how to play _gobstones?_ Draco doubts it, at this point. “Well, I’ve never bothered to go to any of them – no need, when the one in your house is by far the better stocked – ”

 

Potter rolls his eyes again.

 

“– but yes. The Ministry sponsors several. I’m given to understand that Cambridge has the best collection, but Oxford is a close second. Durham can do in a pinch, and the one at Aberdeen isn’t _too_ awful, I suppose.  There are others, but those are generally regarded as the best.”

 

Potter’s blinking at him.

 

“Ox–” he says, sounding startled. “As in, the _Universities?_ Oxford University Library has a wizarding section?”

 

Draco gives him a weird look.

 

“Of course it does,” he says. “Why on earth wouldn’t it?”

 

“But it’s – they’re all Muggle Universities,” Potter says. “Aren’t they?”

 

“They do have a significant Muggle intake, sadly,” Draco says. “Not enough magical enrolments to keep the entire college afloat, apparently. 1070, or thereabouts, they removed half of the grounds from the Anti-muggle protections and opened it up to mudbl– that is, _non-magical folk_ , to ensure enough enrolments to remain open.”

 

Potter had scowled at the almost-slur, but appears to decide to let it slide given that Draco caught himself and changed what he was going to say, and instead sits back in his chair, dropping the book he had been reading through into the _Useless_ pile and apparently taking the opportunity for a break.

 

“I had no idea,” he says. “It never occurred to me that they might have a magical section. I always thought they were completely Muggle.”

 

“With that architecture?” Draco scoffs. “Please. As if Muggles could build something that looks like that.”

 

“Huh. Wait til I tell Hermione. I might have to sit on her to stop her from marching there right now.”

 

“Mmh,” Draco says dismissively. For all he cares Granger could break into Dumbledore’s office and floo there right now. Honestly, he doesn’t give a fig. Quite aside from not caring about Granger one whit, he has other things to focus on right now.

 

“Well regardless of the quality of Hogwarts library versus Oxford, Oxford can’t help us now,” he says, flipping through yet another book that will probably be as useless as the last, and gesturing to their dwindling pile of untried books. “I’ll see if I can get mother to send some more useful ones from home, but for now, try that one. Though if it even _mentions_ Gwendolyn Mayfair, toss it.”

 

_………………_

 

They spend half of Saturday looking for anything that may give them a clue as to how a single underage wizard might be able to take on a dragon alone and live to tell the tale, and eventually leave the Library just before lunchtime, Draco muttering mutinously under his breath about stock quality the whole way and resolving to write to his mother before the end of the weekend. Doubtless Lucius has already shared with her his deductions about the First Task,

 

The long-awaited ambush from Granger comes on Sunday.

 

She all but pounces on him when he leaves the Slytherin Common Room, planning on eating a swift breakfast and then retreating to his study nook to finalise the various assignments that are due in the upcoming week.

 

She appears in front of him before he’s even at the end of the corridor, wand loosely in her hand but not pointing at him, and a fierce expression on her face.

 

“What are your intentions towards Harry?” she asks, getting right to the matter, apparently. Gryffindors. So straightforward. No sense of decorum.

 

Draco raises an eyebrow as his lips twitch.

 

“What are my _intentions_ towards him?” he asks, lip curled at one edge with amusement. “Have I tripped and fallen into the eighteenth century where Potter has a chaperone guarding his every move and glaring suspiciously at all those who dare speak to him, lest they be interested suitors?”

 

Granger flushes angrily.

 

“Don’t try to be clever, you know what I mean,” she snaps. “You don’t like Harry. You’ve _never_ liked Harry, but now you’re acting all buddy-buddy with him and supporting him over Cedric? Don’t think I buy this ‘oh I couldn’t possibly support Diggory, I’ll have to support my arch nemesis instead’ lark. Don’t think for _one second_ that I don’t know you’re up to something.”

 

“Arch nemesis,” Draco echoes with surprise, inordinately pleased. “Is that what he called me? How very flattering. And what, pray tell, am I _up to_?”

 

Granger glares.

 

“I don’t know yet,” she concedes. “But I know you’re up to _something._ You Slytherins always have some scheme or another going on, and if you think you’re going to convince me that you just _decided_ to put aside _three years_ of animosity and try pursuing a friendship instead, _just_ at the same time that Harry and Ron happen to have a fall out, then you’ve got another thing coming. The timing is suspicious, _you_ are suspicious, and you might have Harry fooled, but you can’t say the same for me.”

 

Draco quirks an entertained eyebrow at her.

 

“So, I – what…. waited until Potter and the Weasel had a fall out and then swooped in to save Potter from his tragic loneliness with overtures of friendship that are purely nefarious in their intentions?” he suggests, because quite often, telling people the truth when they expect you to lie is a surefire way to derail their suspicions. “Hmm. How clever of me.”

 

Granger glares again.

 

“Look,” she says, voice fierce. “Harry’s a good person. I know you don’t think so, this ‘let’s be friends’ rubbish aside, but he is – and I know you don’t care about that, so here’s something you might care about. Harry’s got a lot of people who would fight for him if necessary. You really don’t want to find out how many. He and Ron might be arguing at the moment, but Ron would still hex you into unconsciousness if you hurt Harry, and Ginny would be right behind him. And the Weasley twins in particular want you to know that they’re just _waiting_ for you to give them an excuse to come after you.”

 

Draco grimaces at that, despite his best attempts at keeping the expression off his face. Having the Weasley twins’ attentions focussed solely on oneself can only lead to agony and public humiliation, and Draco isn’t above saying he’d prefer to avoid both of those things.

 

Granger’s not done, apparently.

 

“And I know I’m only a worthless mudblood,” she says, spitting the insult mockingly, “but I’ve injured you before for hurting someone I care about, and I won’t hesitate to do it again. You can hate me and my _dirty blood_ as much as you like, so long as you know that _you’re_ the one who’ll come off second best in any altercation between the two of us.”

 

“Look,” Draco says, rolling his eyes and not interested in having this conversation take up any more of his morning. Honestly. He hasn’t even eaten yet. How is he supposed to politely deal with threats to his person when he hasn’t even had toast yet.  It’s cruelty. “I don’t hate you because you’re a Mudblood.”

 

That’s not _entirely_ true, of course, but Draco never claimed to be above a lie here or there to ensure the outcome he wants. He goes on before the offended-slash-outraged expression on Granger’s face has time to fully form.

 

“After all,” he continues without pause. “You had no more say the lack of purity and superiority of your blood than I did in the presence of both those things in mine. It’s not like we choose our parents; it’s just that I was more fortunate than you were.”

 

Granger looks like she’s about to interject with something – probably something full of offended outrage – and Draco goes on before she gets the chance to.

 

“No,” he says, “I hate you because you are an insufferable know-it-all teacher’s pet who is _constantly_ trying to prove how _oh so clever_ you are.”

 

That gives her pause, her mouth hanging slightly open unattractively. Draco makes the most of the opportunity.

 

Sigh. Time for a bit of painful truth to add believability. He’ll never maintain a friendship with Potter if he can’t manage to fake civility with Granger, and Granger won’t let this go and _let him_ establish fake civility with her unless he gives her a good reason to. Draco shelves his haughty pride for a moment.

 

“You have to know you’re the top-ranked in every class except Potions,” he says, exasperated, and Granger hesitates for a moment, then nods.

 

“And you’re top in Potions,” she says promptly, because of course she’s aware of the class rankings. Draco would have been more surprised if she hadn’t been.

 

“Yes, I’ve always been rather gifted at Potions,” he says, offhand. “But I _had_ thought before I started here that I would be the top ranked in _every_ class, not just potions. But instead, I’m relegated to second place. You can imagine how well my Father takes that, to know I’ve been outranked in almost every magical subject by a _mudblood.”_

 

Granger looks like she doesn’t know whether to look apologetic for being ranked first in almost everything or to chastise him for his use of the slur, and she pauses for a moment to compose her reply.

 

Then something occurs to her, and her lips curl up at the edges in a surprisingly sly almost-grin.

 

“The Ravenclaws in our year level must hate the both of us, then,” she says, and Draco’s lip twitches in amusement despite himself, because, well. The Ravenclaws _aren’t_ very fond of either of them, it’s true, and their better rankings are probably precisely why.

 

“Is _that_ why none of them have responded to my overtures of friendship,” he drawls, and Granger giggles. Draco stares.

 

Well. Wonders never cease.

 

Granger’s giggle cuts off abruptly as she appears to register who, precisely, she’s giggling with, and she flushes again with faint embarrassment and draws herself up again into a perfectly straight-backed, almost haughty posture.

 

“Right,” she says, jutting her chin out stubbornly as she sends Draco her most imposing look. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you’re aware. If you hurt Harry, you’ll have a lot of enemies to contend with.”

 

Personally, Draco is pretty sure he can contend with the Weasley contingent and a single mudblood, but why bother with the hassle of it all, honestly.

 

She waits for a moment, staring expectantly, and Draco raises an eyebrow.

 

“Did you want a signed note saying I hear and understand your litany of threats?” he asks.

 

Granger huffs in irritation and glares at him for a second longer before she swivels on her heel and strides off down the corridor, frizzy hair bouncing as she goes, and that’s that, apparently.

 

Hm. Draco had been expecting fewer words and more hexes, to be honest, but he’s hardly going to complain.

 

Right then, he thinks, with a mental shrug. Food, then homework.

 

…………

 

“Granger tells me you called me your arch nemesis,” Draco greets later that morning, upon finding Potter already in the study nook.

 

Potter startles at his sudden entrance.

 

“What?” he asks, blank. “Hermione – wait, what?”

 

“Well I see you're ready and raring to go for a rousing bout of intellectual stimulation,” Draco drawls, dropping his bag in the corner and making his way over to his spot.

 

Funny, how not so long ago the whole alcove was his spot, and yet now he and Potter have designated halves that have sort of... naturally evolved since Potter invited himself in that first afternoon. Draco has ceded half his secret alcove without even a squeak, he realises with a brief flare of surprise. How… unusual and out of character for him.

 

“Wait, you’re going to have to back up here,” Potter says, still trying to catch up on the conversation. “Hermione spoke to you? And she – said I called you _what?”_

 

“She threatened me – threatened me with numerous Weasleys, to be specific – should I ever dare to harm a hair upon your deadly nightshade head,” Draco says casually, drawing his Charms book from his bag as he speaks. “And she said I was your arch nemesis.”

 

“I _never_ called you that,” Potter says, looking appalled. Appalled at the thought of him calling someone something so clichéd and absurd, Draco suspects, rather than appalled because he disagrees with the sentiment of the term. He looks as though someone has just accused him of finding Acromantulas adorable. And then, “Hermione _threatened you?”_

 

Draco sends an unimpressed expression at Potter.

 

“Don’t tell me you're surprised,” he says. “I’ve been expecting an ambush from her for weeks now. I’m merely surprised it took so long.”

 

“That’s… not usually her style,” Potter says, sounding thoughtful and a tad concerned, like he’s worried about what’s going on with Granger to push her into threatening bodily harm. Like she didn’t actually _hit_ Draco last year over a _wild_ _animal._

 

“I’m fine, by the way,” Draco says rolling his eyes. “I still have all my organs and everything.”

 

Potter flaps a dismissive hand at him.

 

“Of course you do, Hermione doesn’t just go around hurting people unprovoked.”

 

“This is the witch, I shall remind you, who broke my nose last year over a _hippogriff,”_ Draco points out, unimpressed.

 

Potter pauses.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “Though, I wouldn’t call that _unprovoked,_ exactly. I mean, you were goading her.”

 

“Psh,” Draco scoffs, because he can’t very well claim he hadn’t been goading her, but he’s quite not willing to concede the point in general. He’s still smarting over that punch, if he’s honest with himself. He had been goading her, yes, but he had expected her to _cry,_ not to physically lash out. He’d been prepared for a magical attack, if anything, but he had genuinely not seen the fist to the nose coming, and his pride is still stinging. Even more so because the accursed hippogriff somehow escaped, which, really, is just salt in the wound.

 

“The point I’m making is that she’s usually more of a _heat of the moment_ kind of person,” Potter goes on, oblivious to Draco’s grumbling thoughts. “It’s unusual for her to _seek out_ someone and start an argument with them.”

 

“It was less of an argument and more a case of me standing there while she threatened to sic the red-headed hell-family on me,” Draco says. “And like I said. I saw this coming weeks ago. I _expected_ for there to be an attempt at hexing, I won’t lie, but I’m not upset that it didn’t come to that. It was too early in the morning for duels.”

 

Potter rolls his eyes and reaches for his textbook.

 

“I still can’t believe she called me your _arch nemesis,”_ he grumbles, apparently deciding to let the whole Granger-threatened-my-life-with-Death-by-Weasels conversation come to an end.

 

Draco shrugs. “It’s not a terrible moniker, I have to say.”

 

Potter purses his lips, looking vaguely irritated.

 

“If anyone’s my arch nemesis, it’s Voldemort,” he says, mulish, and the unexpected use of the name that _isn’t supposed to be used_ has Draco sucking in a mouthful of air that somehow gets caught in his throat and makes him cough harshly and gasp for breath.

 

Potter, the wonderfully compassionate Gryffindor that he is, rolls his eyes and flips open his textbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your lovely feedback, you fabulous, fabulous people! I’m so chuffed at how well this is being received. If I haven’t replied to your comments/reviews, I apologise – life has been ever so slightly insane recently, but I appreciate every single bit of feedback you guys give me, and it never fails to make me grin whenever I get a new comment/review. So thanks again!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all fabulously lovely; thank you for all the support! I apologise for the delay; real life has been somewhat chaotic. Some high- (and low-) lights include: a death in the family and a subsequent funeral, several family weddings, one big estranged-family reunion, several birthdays, various mental health issues, a resignation, and a new job. And then another two family birthdays. So… yeah. It’s all been a tad nuts. 
> 
> Also, a brief note: I mention Fudge’s Hogwarts House in this one, and while his canon House was never made clear, numerous people have speculated and Hufflepuff seems the most likely, so I’ve gone with that. Reasoning is at the end, for those interested.

Draco had written home to his parents on Saturday evening, and the requested parcel of books arrives on Monday morning with the rest of the post.

 

He had asked Narcissa for a variety of books from the Malfoy Library which might detail how to defeat various Classification Level Five magical beasts, including Nundus, Chimeras, Dragons, and Basilisks.

 

It was for a voluntary extra credit in Care of Magical Creatures, he explained in the letter. Just for safety’s sake _._

 

Besides. Draco’s grade in that class isn’t as good as it could be, and hey, if he ends up having to write a foot-long essay on how to kill or maim various dangerous animals and then hand it in to the supposed “Professor” who has a downright unhealthy love for such creatures in order to ensure his alibi, well, Draco won’t mind that too terribly. It would do the old oaf Hagrid a spot of good, probably, to read about how dangerous the animals he sees as potential pets truly are. Draco still hasn’t forgotten the _hatching an actual dragon in his hut_ incident of first year. Not to mention the hippogriff incident of last year or the Blast Ended Skrewts of _this_ year which have so far caused over twenty burns to students and who show no signs yet of ceasing to grow.

 

So. The extra credit lie should be enough to mask the true purpose of his letter. It’s not that Draco _expects_ for anyone to screen his letters, but growing up in the Malfoy household, one is taught to always behave as though someone is watching, and then if ever anyone starts to, you’re already behaving accordingly. Spending three and a bit years in the Slytherin Dormitory has only encouraged the taking of such precautions.

 

His mother will, of course, see straight through the request. It’s not like he’s bothering to hide what he’s really after from his _parents_ , just from any unwelcome eyes who might see his letter. If Lucius bothers to read the note he’ll see straight through it as well, but better to have the request structured as a self-elected extra credit research project than to outright say “Thanks for telling me about the dragons, Pops, can you give me books too so I can tell one of the Champions how to _defeat_ said dragons so he hopefully doesn’t die on the field? Great, ta.”

 

His parents still don’t know about Potter, anyway, for which Draco’s glad. He still needs to work out how to phrase the situation to them so they respond to it in the best way possible. They’ll be fine once Draco explains, of course, but the phrasing is still important to ensure it goes over as smoothly as possible. Lucius is hardly a fan of the Boy Who Lived, after all.

 

And in the meantime, it’s likely his parents will see his request for books on dragon battling merely as a way of keeping ahead of common knowledge. _Knowledge is power_ isn’t a saying for no reason, and Draco was taught at an early age that if you know more than the people surrounding you, then you’ve got power over them. So his parents will see this request merely as Draco keeping one step ahead of the rest of Hogwarts, and likely won’t even bother to ask questions.

 

Sure enough, come Monday morning in the middle of the breakfast rush, the Malfoy eagle owl alights in front of Draco with a neatly wrapped parcel of books lightened with a featherweight charm, and the parcel touches down on the table at the same time that a bland delivery owl drops the morning’s Prophet practically in Draco’s lap and then continues off on it’s way without pause.  

 

He reaches out to untie the books from his owl, eager, but then as he’s pulling on the leather fastenings he catches sight of the Prophet’s front page and nearly chokes on his pumpkin juice. He abandons the bird and the parcel entirely in favour of unrolling the paper to get a proper look at the headline.

 

 _The Boy Who Lived and the Death Eater’s Son,_ it reads, and Draco would groan into his breakfast if he hadn’t been raised better than that. The Malfoy owl – irritated at being ignored – reaches down and snaps its deadly-sharp beak through the loosened bindings, freeing itself from the parcel with a huff and flying away, making sure to cuff Draco around the head with it’s wings as it goes. Draco notices distantly, ducking ineffectually, but most of his attention is focused on the article in front of him.

 

“Well look at that, you finally made the front page,” Blaise says lightly, craning his neck over Draco’s shoulder to read the article too. “Granted, your name doesn’t appear until the fifth paragraph, but still. Front page. You’re progressing in the world.”

 

Blaise is right, Draco sees when he flickers his eyes over the article. About the name thing – not the moving up in the world thing. He’s a _Malfoy,_ thank you very much. He’s already up in the world.  But he’s not wrong that Draco’s actual name doesn’t get mentioned until paragraph five.

 

The article’s first couple of paragraphs are dedicated to Potter entirely, talking yet again about his status as a Triwizard Champion and how the First Task is coming up in just over a month, a reminder of his school House and school-based achievements to date, and a brief summary of his very-Gryffindor parents. It’s not until the fourth paragraph that any reference to Draco is made at all, and even then it’s as “the son of a well-known Death Eater.” It’s in paragraph five that the author (Skeeter, Draco sees with an internal hiss of dislike, because _of course_ it is) finally bothers to actually say Draco’s name, and she then immediately reminds the reader that Mr Malfoy Senior was arrested back in ‘81 for crimes as a Death Eater, but that he successfully pled the Imperious defence.

 

“Father is not going to be pleased,” Draco mutters, scanning the rest of the article. It’s actually very well put together, and Draco would very much like to know who Skeeter’s source is. She’s got some very accurate details. She mentions Weasley and Potter’s grand falling out, and manages to both paint Weasel as a dreadful friend because of his belief that Potter is lying, while also insinuating that everyone and their crup knows that Potter slipped his name into the Goblet somehow and is refusing to spill the beans on how, and Weasley thinking the same is merely more support for the theory. Skeeter also mentions that Potter and Draco are practically permanent Potions partners now, and they’ve been seen regularly practising Quidditch together on the Pitch of a Saturday morning. There’s no mention of Draco’s study nook, for which he’s grateful, because the last thing he wants is to have to find a new place because a bunch of gawkers have come to nosily poke their faces into Draco’s business. As it is he and Potter are going to have to come up with either a new time or a new place to fly, because the Pitch will be overrun with spectators on a Saturday morning now.

 

“You didn’t tell him yet then?” Blaise asks, and it takes Draco a second to register that he’s talking about Draco’s comment about how his Father won’t be happy about this.

 

“I didn’t, no,” Draco answers. “And as much as I would have preferred to tell him on my own terms, that’s not actually what I was referring to. Father will be fine with what I’m doing once I’ve explained it to him. No – I was talking about this ‘son of a Death Eater’ business. Father has worked hard to put that image behind him and repair his reputation; he won’t thank Skeeter for bringing it the forefront of people’s minds again.”

 

Being the middle of breakfast, the Hall is packed almost to capacity, and as several people at each table have subscriptions to the Prophet, the excited whispering and murmuring through the room – and the weight of eyes on Draco’s back – has gone up several notches as students register the front page article and huddle in tight little clusters here and there to read it and then crane their heads to look at either Draco or Potter. Draco wants to roll his eyes. You’d think it was shocking news they were only just hearing about, not that it’s something that they’ve all been aware of for weeks and already gossiped about to nth degree. Lemmings, the lot of them.

 

Draco turns in his seat to look over towards the Gryffindor table, searching for Potter’s tragically messy head amongst the huddled, gossiping students, only to find that Potter is already out of his chair and is making a bee-line across the room for the Slytherin table and Draco.

 

The attention of many in the Hall was already on Potter as the vapid, empty-headed student cohort searched for the subject of the article, but he hasn’t even got halfway across the room before almost every eye is on him, watching his progress across the Hall with no small amount of intensity and curiosity, whispers increasing the closer to the Slytherin table he gets.

 

The weight of all their stares as Potter heads unerringly to the Slytherin table must be heavy, but for his part, Potter either does an outstanding job of pretending to not be aware of the attention of the whole Hall on him, or he _genuinely_ doesn’t notice.

 

Draco’s willing to bet it’s the latter.

 

Potter’s steps are smooth and sure as he makes his way over, and by the time he’s reached the Slytherin table, the whispers have dropped off into a suspenseful silence as they wait to see what Potter does.

 

Vultures, every last one of them. 

 

“You’ve seen it too then,” Potter says lightly, gesturing to the Prophet in Draco’s hands as he slows to a stop. He takes his bag of school books off his shoulder and drops it casually on the floor next to the bench seat, and then he ––– and then he sits himself down beside Draco, without even blinking, and reaches for Draco’s Prophet, plucking it neatly from his unresisting grip.

 

Draco stares. So do the rest of the Slytherins. So does the rest of the _Hall_.

 

“It’s irritatingly accurate, for once,” Potter muses, scanning the article with an annoyed frown between his brows, eternally oblivious – as always – to all the slack-jawed staring going on.

 

“It’s _not,”_ Draco responds, startled out of his own personal shocked staring. “The whole bit about my father, for one, is utter rubbish.”

 

Potter glances up from the paper to raise a questioning eyebrow at him, and says nothing.

 

“He was _acquitted,”_ Draco says, annoyed. “Imperious curse. All charges were dropped. Surely you know this, Potter.”

 

Potter gives him a narrow-eyed, thoughtful gaze.

 

“I’d heard it,” he says neutrally. “Wasn’t sure if it was legit or not, though.”

 

Draco scowls at him.

 

“Of course it was legitimate,” he snaps, defensive. “You think they let many actual Death Eaters just walk away after the war, do you?”

 

Potter raises his hands in surrender.

 

“If you say so,” he says, but Draco is fairly sure he hasn’t been convinced in the slightest.

 

“I mean, I’ve only met him a couple of times,” Potter goes on, “but it sure seemed like he would have enjoyed cursing me into a puddle of goo each time.”

 

“Of course he’d like to curse you into oblivion!” Draco replies, indignant, and possibly louder than he should, given that the _whole hall_ is shamelessly attempting to listen in to this conversation. “You tricked him into setting our House Elf free!”

 

At that, Potter grins brightly, which is the opposite reaction Draco wanted from him.

 

“He told you about that, did he?” Potter says, downright delighted.

 

Draco scowls darkly.

 

“Ranted for _days,”_ he says. “Dobby had been with us since _birth._ Do you know how much effort it takes to get a new House Elf, bind it to a family, and get it trained up?”

 

“No idea whatsoever,” Potter says, still grinning. “I’d apologise, but. I’m not at all sorry, so. And you keep telling me I’m a rubbish liar, so there’s no point in even trying, really.” 

 

“You _should_ be sorry,” Draco grumbles, still scowling. “Minky had to take over the kitchens in Dobby’s absence, and she’s a dreadful cook. She made me _hard boiled eggs._ It was ridiculous.”

 

“Oh, Merlin forbid you have _hard boiled_ eggs,” Potter says with a snort, utterly unrepentant, and completely unsympathetic to the plight he put the entire Malfoy family through while they suffered through weeks of Minky’s cooking.

 

“Speaking of eggs, though,” the Boy Who Has No Remorse continues, and gestures to a bowl a little way down the table. “Pass those ones, would you?”

 

Because Potter isn’t just sitting at the Slytherin table this morning, apparently – he’s also planning on eating here. Like that’s just no big deal.

 

On an average day, there are no rules against sitting at another House’s table; the only exceptions are events like the Welcome or Farewell feasts, for which the students are expected to sit with their Housemates. It’s therefore a common sight throughout the week to see yellow school ties at the Gryffindor table, red at the Ravenclaw bench, blue at the Hufflepuff, or any variation thereof as friends sit with each other for meals.

 

But no one ever sits at the Slytherin table aside from Slytherins.

 

It’s just – it’s not the done thing.

 

On the rare occasion that a Slytherin has someone from another house they wish to sit with, it’s done at the other person’s table. Daphne Greengrass spends a lot of her lunches over at the Ravenclaw table with Isobel MacDougal and Su Li, but the trio never sit with the Slytherins. _No one_ sits with the Slytherins aside from fellow Slytherins.

 

Draco isn’t certain as to why, but he thinks it’s probably a combination of factors, ranging from their House’s reputation through to the fact that they as a group aren’t particularly welcoming towards outsiders. He doesn’t really care, to be honest. It’s hardly something he’s ever spent time thinking about. It’s just something that has always been. The blue, red and yellow Houses visit each others’ tables frequently; no one sits at the green table.

 

But now Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived himself, is sitting in the heart of a nest of vipers, casual as you please, asking to be passed a bowl full of scrambled eggs.

 

While Draco’s busy staring for a moment in silent shock, Blaise – on Draco’s other side – reaches out and picks up the bowl of eggs in question, and passes it across Draco to Potter.

 

“Oh,” Potter says, startled, reaching reflexively to take the bowl from Blaise. “Um. Thanks.”

 

Blaise nods with a cordial disinterest that looks utterly natural, but that Draco knows for a fact is completely feigned, and goes back to his own breakfast.

 

“Um,” Potter says, clearly still just as thrown by being on the receiving end of Slytherin cordiality as Draco is thrown by the fact that the Saviour of the Wizarding World is eating breakfast with a table full of ex-(accused!)Death Eater children.

 

Following Blaise’s lead, the other Slytherins in the immediate vicinity withdraw their wide-eyed stares and return slowly to what they’d been doing before – buttering toast and pouring juice and spooning up cereal and starting to chat quietly to their neighbours again – and if they do it all with a somewhat exaggerated care that means their actions are slightly more quiet than usual (read: so that they might still have a chance of eavesdropping), well, Draco doesn’t doubt that Potter is entirely oblivious to it.

 

“Right,” Potter says, shaking his head a little and setting the bowl of eggs down on the table before reaching for the serving spoon. “Anyway. Skeeter. Other than that… one part, this whole article is – well, it’s actually fairly accurate, overall. For once. And I’d like to know where she got all the information.”

 

Draco snorts.

 

“We haven’t exactly been sneaking around, Potter,” he says, pushing aside his own lingering surprise as he passes over the basket of toast that’s just out of Potter’s reach. “She’d only have to wander past the Pitch on a Saturday to see that we’ve been training together, for instance.”

 

“But she’s only allowed on the school grounds if it’s for a pre-arranged Tournament-related reason,” Potter says, buttering his toast before picking up his knife and fork. “McGonagall said so. Skeeter kept trying to get _exclusives_ with the other Gryffindors, once she finally worked out I had no interest in talking to her. McGonagall found her squished into a broom cupboard a few weeks ago with Lavender and Parvati while they were supposed to be in Transfiguration, so she went to Dumbledore to get restrictions put on all members of the press.”

 

“Hm,” Draco says, tapping his fork thoughtfully against his plate, running through the list of possible tattle tales. There are a lot of options. Practically any of the students, really.

 

“Well thank Merlin whoever she spoke to doesn’t know about the study spot,” he eventually says in an undertone that only Potter will hear.

 

An expression of relieved realisation washes over Potter’s face.

 

“Good point,” he says, grimacing.

 

“Well Skeeter shouldn’t be a problem for much longer, at least,” Draco says bracingly, and Potter quirks a curious eyebrow at him. Draco elaborates. “My father was acquitted of all crimes. She can remind people that he faced charges back then and she can say he pled the Imperius defence, because all that _is_ true. But given that all charges against him were then dismissed, she can’t say something like _Death Eater’s Son_. That’s outright slander. My father will have her career for it, I don’t doubt.”

 

“That…. seems a little extreme,” Potter says, and Draco slants a sideways glance at him.

 

“It isn’t,” he says. “Skeeter runs close to the wire of integrity as a matter of course, and it’s been going on for years. She’s been focussed on you for all of a month, and you already dislike her and what she’s written about you. And that’s what she’s written while trying to remain on your _good_ side so she can convince you to do an exclusive interview with her. You haven’t seen the half of what she’s capable of when she doesn’t care for the opinion of whoever she’s writing about. She only cares about selling papers, this one, and she’s not above dismissing the truth or inventing a scandal if that’s what it takes. She’s unjustly broken up more than one marriage with her invented scandals, and ruined a good few careers to boot. She trades in libel and rumourmongering, and she and the Prophet should have been held to account for it a long time ago. This article merely gives Father the avenue for justice he’s been waiting for for some time.”

 

Potter doesn’t appear convinced, but he doesn’t argue further, at least, and merely hums in mild disapproval and takes another forkful of eggs.

 

Draco decides to let the subject of the article drop.

 

“Anyway,” he says, changing the topic as Potter swallows his mouthful of eggs, and gestures with his chin to the parcel of books – still sitting wrapped and abandoned in the middle of the table. “The books arrived from my mother.”

 

“Oh! Brilliant,” Potter says, and reaches for the parcel. Draco smacks his hand away from them with his fork.

 

“You can’t go through them _here,_ you halfwit,” Draco hisses. Sure, just pop open a book on dragon fighting, right there in public, at the Slytherin table, a few weeks before you’re due to fight a “surprise” dragon. _Gryffindors._ Absolutely _no_ sense of subtlety.

 

“Why – _oh,”_ Potter says, devastatingly slow on the uptake, as usual.

 

“At lunch,” Draco says, not even glancing at the parcel, to avoid drawing any more attention to the books than already has been, and then drops his tone lower again to say the next part for Potter’s ears alone. “We’ll meet at the study nook then, if you’re that keen to get started.”

 

“Alright,” Potter says with a shrug, and pushes his now-empty plate away. “What have you got first up? I’ve got Transfiguration.”

 

“History of Magic,” Draco says in a longsuffering tone. Potter winces.

 

“First thing in the morning? That’s rough. I can’t stay awake in that class at the best of times, much less in the morning.”

 

“Sleeping in class?” Draco asks, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, and never mind that its sheer willpower and stubbornness that keeps _him_ awake during that pathetic excuse for a lesson. “How irresponsible of you.”

 

Potter snorts, swallowing his last forkful of eggs (how did he eat them so fast? Did he chew them at _all_ , or just inhale them? Did no one teach this boy table manners growing up?) and setting down his cutlery.

 

“You and Hermione really should get on better than you do,” he says, and Draco gasps in outrage, but Potter’s gone – swinging a leg over the benchseat and scooping up his bag, tossing out a casual “See you at lunch” over his shoulder as he goes – before Draco can reply to the offensive comment.

 

Pansy waits until he’s out of hearing before pouncing.

 

“ _Draco!_ ” she says, gleeful. “I can’t – I can’t believe he _ate breakfast with you!_ I am _speechless_ over how well this plan of yours is going.”

 

“Say it louder, why don’t you Pans – it’s not like the entire hall was evesdropping on this whole table not three minutes ago,” Theo says, rolling his eyes disdainfully, and Pansy swats him, annoyed.

 

“Oh, hush, no one’s paying any attention anymore; Potter’s gone, their interest in our conversations has collectively waned.”

 

“So what’s in the books?” Blaise asks, while Pansy and Theo continue to bicker.

 

“Nothing that concerns you,” Draco answers, deliberately absent as he retrieves his Prophet from where Potter abandoned it, flipping to the second page to see if there’s any _worthwhile_ news. (Doubtful.)

 

Blaise’s lips curl in amusement at the clear dismissal as he turns back to the novel he’d been reading before their table got invaded by a Gryffindor.

 

“I do love a good mystery,” is all the other boy says, taking a sip of his coffee (black and unsweetened, because the Italians are _masochistic_ ).

 

Draco manages to avoid further questions from his housemates by ~~hiding behind~~ reading his Prophet until he’s finished his meal and can head to class, not bothering to wait for any of them.

 

History of Magic is a chore, as usual –

 

(and _why_ is the class even called _History of Magic_ when the only thing they ever seem to study is the Goblin Wars? That’s not a history of magic, that’s a history of one singular warmongering species. Also: what _possible_ use could there be for knowing the names of all the Generals in the 1208 Uprising anyway?)

 

– the class full of scratching quills from the Ravenclaw side of the room, and rumbling snores from Grabbe and Goyle’s side of the room. The two boys don’t even pretend to try to stay awake, anymore. It’s been three full years, and never once has an actual teacher (because Binns doesn’t count as a real teacher) stepped into the room and caught them outright sleeping in this class. Even Draco – dedicated as he is to his marks – is tempted to join them now and then.

 

After History of Magic is Charms, again with the Ravenclaws, and by the end of the lesson, Draco’s rabbits have been turned successfully into a neat pair of grey and white slippers. It took him a few tries to get all the minute details right, he concedes, but better that than what happened to Vincent’s rabbits, which was somewhat messy and had both Daphne and the Ravenclaw girl – Chang? – crying on behalf of the poor vermin.

 

Finally it’s lunchtime, and Draco detaches himself from the mass of people headed to the Great Hall, and heads instead towards the study nook. He’ll get some food later; there’s over an hour until his next class, he has time. He suspects Potter will want to dive right into the books, so might as well get it over with. He can hand them over and go down to lunch afterwards. This shouldn’t take long at all.

 

…………………………………………………………………..

 

He was correct in that Potter did want to dive right into the books, and the other boy shows up at the study nook less than five minutes after Draco arrives there.

 

He was _not_ correct in thinking the exchange would be swift.

 

Because _Potter_ …

 

Potter wants to tell Diggory and the others about the dragons.

 

“Are you mad?” Draco demands, and he's regretting now that he’s already handed the books over. If he hadn’t, he could hold them to ransom until Potter lets go of this absurd idea. “You can’t tell them!”

 

“But if I’m the only one who knows, that’s not right,” the idiot boy argues, because spending the morning in Transfiguration and then Herbology with the ‘Puffs has _turned him into a badger,_ apparently. That’s the only explanation Draco can think of for this sudden bout of _madness._

 

“It gives me an unfair advantage,” Potter continues, earnest. “They should get a heads up too.”

 

“Do we have _two_ Hufflepuff Champions?” Draco demands, incredulous. “You’re a Gryffindor. Stupidity and reckless bravery are your areas of expertise; fairness isn’t a concern of yours.”

 

Potter scowls.

 

“Being concerned with fairness is a personality trait, not just a House trait,” he argues, peeved. “Fairness doesn’t stop at the Hufflepuff Common Room door and never extend beyond that. Or are you saying that no one other than Slytherins can be ambitious and no one but Ravenclaws can be smart?”

 

“Well…” Draco says, and Potter shoots him an impatient look.

 

“The current Minister for Magic was a Hufflepuff and it doesn’t get much more ambitious than that, and I know from Hermione that between you and her no Ravenclaw in our year even gets a look in to any class ranking higher than third place, so don’t even bother arguing. It’s not fair that I have a few weeks’ notice about the fact that we’re going to be fighting bloody _dragons_ and none of the others know.”

 

“You’re fourteen,” Draco hisses. “They’re seventeen. _That’s_ not fair. They’ve got NEWT level studies under their belts while you haven’t even got your OWLs yet – they’ve literally got years of experience and learning on you. You knowing about the dragons in advance doesn’t give you an unfair advantage – it merely levels the playing field.”

 

Potter looks unconvinced.

 

“Besides,” Draco goes on. “If you tell them that it’s dragons, they’ll ask how you know. And no offence Potter but you’re an appalling liar, which means that you, me, and my father will all be in for it when they find out how you knew.”

 

Potter hesitates at that.

 

Draco feels a fleeting spike of victory, that lasts until Potter’s face hardens stubbornly.

 

“It’s still not fair,” he says, determined. Draco groans in frustration.

 

“Alright, look,” he says after a moment, because obviously they’re going to have to compromise on this. “How about this. You take the time between now and the First Task to come up with a plan of action and to start training for it, and then – lets say… two days before the Task, if the other Champions still don’t know that it’s a dragon that they’re going to be facing, you can tell them. That way, you get a few weeks training – which only evens things out between you and them a little bit, since they’ve got _years_ on you – but they still get forewarning about what the Task is. Enough time that they can come up with their own strategy, and certainly more time than they would have gotten if they found out when they were supposed to. Which is to say: minutes before starting the First Task.”

 

Potter’s lips twist.

 

“I don’t know,” he ponders. “It doesn’t feel right that I get weeks to prepare, and they only get days.”

 

Draco manfully resists the urge to throttle the other boy.

 

“Think of it this way. They’ve got weeks of preparation over you already. Years of it, actually. _Three_ years worth, to be precise. You taking some time ahead of the Task to try to come up with a plan is only giving you a chance to catch up on some of the education they’ve already got. Who knows – maybe ‘How to defeat a dragon’ is a topic in fifth or sixth year, and the other three are already fully equipped for this Task without even knowing.”

 

Potter’s lips are a thin line of reluctance and deliberation.

 

“I’ll tell them a week out,” he says a moment later, decisive. “I’ll say I overheard Bagman saying something, and I figured it out from that.”

 

Draco presses his lips together in displeasure.

 

“Fine,” he says, grudging. “I still think two days is ample warning, but I can see when an argument is lost. I draw the line at claiming you heard Bagman say something, though. They’ll want to know what he said, and how you guessed, and your entire lie will collapse around your ears. Better for you to stick to a slimmed down version of the truth. Just say that someone worked it out and told you. When they ask who, you can just tell them that it’s none of their concern. It’s quite enough that you’re giving them _any_ information, they don’t get to demand where you got it from as well.”

 

Potter huffs in amusement.

 

“I think I’ll go more the _I can’t tell you or they’ll get in trouble_ route, and less the haughty, _You don’t get to demand these answers of me_ one.”

 

“Hm. Yes, probably best you stick to your strengths,” Draco says, not bothering to protest the _haughty_ term. “Now are we finished here? It’s going to be slim pickings at lunch by now anyway, and if we don’t get down there sooner rather than later, Crabbe and Goyle will have left nothing but the pie crusts behind.”

 

Potter slants a considering glance at Draco as he stuffs the books into his bag.

 

“What,” Draco says, tone flat.

 

“I… happen to know where the kitchens are,” Potter confesses, straightening and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “They’ve always got loads of food down there. It wouldn’t be slim pickings.”

 

“Of course you know where the kitchens are,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “You do know, I assume, that they’re meant to be off limits to students?”

 

“So does that mean you don’t want to go and have a meal that consists of more than pie crusts?” Potter asks, and Draco sniffs disdainfully.

 

“I didn’t say that,” he says. “Merely pointing out that Harry _The Rules Only Apply To Other People_ Potter has struck again. Lead on to the kitchens, Mr _I Do What I Want And Get Away With It Be_ c _ause I Am A Rich And Famous Gryffindor.”_

 

Potter snorts, pushing the tapestry aside and stepping out into the hall, waiting for Draco to follow him before he sets off towards the nearest staircase.

 

“Because Slytherins _never_ get away with breaking the rules,” he says, but he sounds amused as he says it, so Draco counts it as a win. “And besides – you're about to go there with me, so you can’t count yourself out of breaking the _no students in the kitchens_ rule.”

 

Draco gasps and stops walking.

 

“You’re right,” he says, aghast. “I’m about to break school rules with a _Gryffindor._ You – you are a dreadful influence on law abiding students, Potter.”

 

“Law abiding,” Potter snorts. “Sure. What was your first ever detention for, again?”

 

“You know very well what it was for,” Draco scowls, remembering all too well his first and only misadventure in the Forbidden Forest. Sending eleven year olds in to look for something that was killing unicorns, _really?_ It’s a wonder any of them got out alive. “The injustice, honestly.” 

 

“Well you _were_ out of bed, just as much as we were,” Potter chuckles, all too amused for Draco’s liking.

 

“I was only out of bed because I knew _you_ were out of – Merlin,” Draco says, realising something. “There’s a pattern. It was all your fault then, too. You’ve been an appalling influence on my behaviour for years!”

 

Potter laughs outright at that.

 

“You should hear some of the stuff Hermione and Ron have fallen into because of me,” he says. “You and I being friends is probably going to have you breaking a lot more rules than just sneaking into the kitchens for lunch or tattling on someone for trying to sneak a dragon out of the school.”

 

And Draco would comment on that – he really would – but Potter just said _You and I being friends._

_You and I being friends._

Sweet Merlin, he's done it. They’re _friends._ Potter himself said it.

 

Draco feels giddy with success. His face wants to smile, but he doesn’t let it, because smiling for no apparent reason would look somewhat odd, and he kind of doesn’t want to draw attention to what Potter’s just said.

 

“I always knew you broke far more rules than even I was aware of,” Draco says after a moment, because not replying at all would look just as odd as randomly grinning.

 

Potter huffs, an expression that’s partly amused and partly reminiscent on his face.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” he says.

 

They continue on, Potter leading and both of them bickering to and fro the whole way, but Draco’s mouth is working mostly on autopilot as his brain rehashes the moment of his success over and over again.

 

 _You and I being friends._ Merlin, achieving the first step of ones nefarious goals is _so_ energising.

 

Eventually, they get down to the part of the school that leads to the Slytherin Common Room in one direction, and where Draco assumes the Hufflepuff Common Room is in the other, given that that’s the corridor that the ‘Puffs always head down after dinner.

 

Draco doesn’t know where he’s expecting them to turn off to head towards the kitchens, but he knows he's _not_ expecting them to stop in front of a painting of a bowl full of fruit.

 

He raises an eyebrow at Potter, and Potter grins and… tickles the pear. And the pair squirms, giggles, and turns into a doorknob.

 

Draco shouldn’t be surprised, really. It seems like exactly the kind of bizarre, kooky addition that whoever designed this castle would make.

 

“Whoever charmed this painting is the one who charmed the staircases too, I’d wager,” he says drily, because the two things are exactly the same flavour of humour.

 

“Probably,” Potter snorts, and then gestures to the doorknob. “After you.”

 

If it were anyone else, Draco would suspect some kind of adolescent prank, or would expect there to be a teacher on the other side of the door just waiting to catch the first foolish soul to walk through the door – but this is Potter, and Potter isn’t capable of such deception.

 

Draco steps forward, grasps the doorknob and twists it, and strides through into the kitchens.

 

He has half a moment to register a big room and four long tables, before there is a sudden rush of House Elves as the creatures notice their visitors and swarm forwards to assist them, talking over each other in their eagerness to serve.

 

“Sirs, what can we be getting you?” is overlaid with “Do the young Sirs wish for some lunch?” and “We be having lots of leftovers, if Sirs want them,” from the mouths of at least a dozen elves.

 

“We missed lunch in the Great Hall,” Potter says from just behind Draco. “Whatever leftovers you have would be great.”

 

Again, the elves all speak over each other.

 

“Of course, Sirs,” and “We shall fetch some for yous,” and “Sit down and we will be bringing you some,” and a variety of other similar phrases as the elves all scuttle off to fetch some food.

 

And then – once the elves have mostly scurried away – a voice pipes up from Draco’s right.

 

“Young *Master Draco?” the someone says, and Draco snaps his head around to look at the speaker and then blinks several times in shock.

 

“ _Dobby_?” he asks, flummoxed, and Dobby squeals happily and throws himself at Draco’s legs.

 

Draco staggers a little, grabbing on to the table next to him so that he doesn’t fall over, and stares down at the little grey creature who is snuffling into his knees.

 

“How did you – Dumbledore took you in, didn’t he?” he says, and Dobby detaches himself from Draco’s legs enough that he can peer up at him with huge, wet green eyes. Of course. Dumbledore _would_ be one of the few who would take in a disgraced house elf. There aren’t many who’d be willing to take in an elf who had been given clothes.

 

“Yes, Young Master Draco, Mister Professor Dumblidore is been being very kind to Dobby,” the house elf says, enthused. “He is paying Dobby and even giving Dobby _holidays_!”

 

The other elves have started to return now, with plates and trays laden with far more food than two people could ever eat by themselves, and at Dobby’s words about payment and holidays, they all cast him dark looks.

 

Draco, for his part, barks a startled laugh.

 

“Of course he is,” he says, because if there’s one coot weird enough to pay a house elf and give them holidays, it would be Dumbledore.

 

Dobby nods enthusiastically.

 

“He is, he is a very good – what is being the word again, Mister Harry Potter Sir?” Dobby asks, and Draco looks up to find Potter sitting at the table with all the food, half a sandwich already on his plate, as he regards Draco and the elf with a expression of surprised amusement. Draco scowls at him immediately.

 

“Boss,” Potter provides, ignoring Draco’s glare, and Dobby nods.

 

“Yes, _boss_ – Mister Professor Dumblidore is being a very good boss to Dobby.”

 

Draco looks away from Potter – he’ll deal with him and his irreverent amusement later – and back at Dobby.

 

“Well I’m pleased you found the one madman in all of England who would pay you for your services,” he says, and he doesn’t add _you little weirdo_ to the end, partly because such a phrase is unbefitting of a Malfoy and also because it would come out far too fond, and he's got to keep _some_ shreds of his dignity intact after being hugged around the knees by his long lost house elf.

 

“Mister Professor Dumblidore is a madman, yes, but he is being a very _good_ madman,” Dobby says, which makes Draco pull a face, because he would hardly refer to Dumbledore as a _good_ man (a goodie-two-shoes man, yes, but not a good one), but he doesn’t get a chance to voice this because Dobby looks over to their table full of food and huffs.

 

“They is not be getting you enough pumpkin juice,” he says, because the three jugs already on the table is not enough, apparently. “Dobby will be getting you more.”

 

The elf scurries off, and Draco watches him go with a bemused expression for a moment before he turns and swings his legs over the benchseat opposite Potter.

 

Potter, who is staring at him with his eyebrows raised and an amused twist to his lips.

 

“Shut up,” Draco says, and reaches for the first jug of pumpkin juice.

 

Potter raises his hands.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, half-laughing, and Draco sends him a scowl.

 

“Maybe not verbally, but your expression is saying an awful lot,” Draco retorts.

 

“I’m just… surprised,” Potter says, and takes a bite of what looks to be a cheese and tomato sandwich. All this food on offer, and the boy goes for a cheese and tomato sandwich. How plebeian.

 

“Surprised by what? You obviously knew he was here,” Draco says, reaching for the chicken chasseur and serving himself a portion.

 

It makes sense, in hindsight. There was no surprise from Potter at Dobby’s presence here in the kitchens, and Potter was the one who conspired to free the elf in the first place. Hell, he’s probably the one who set up the job with Dumbledore. And it explains the considering look Potter had given Draco earlier, in the study nook, before announcing that he knew where the kitchens were. He wasn’t gauging whether or not to trust Draco with the location of the kitchens, he was gauging whether or not to let Draco know that Dobby was employed here.

 

(And – _employed,_ really? An elf, _employed_. Wonders never cease.)

 

“I did,” Potter confirms. “I knew he was here, but it hadn’t registered until breakfast this morning that you wouldn’t know. And not gonna lie, I was curious as to what your reaction would be to seeing him again.”

 

“Did you think I would kick him across the kitchen for abandoning us?” Draco asks, not quite able to contain his sneer, and unsure why the thought of Potter thinking he might do such a thing makes him feel so waspish.

 

“I didn’t think you’d kick him across the kitchen, but… well. I did see how your father treated him, and I was curious to see how _you’d_ interact with him.”

 

“Yes, well. I am not my father,” Draco says, voice clipped, and it doesn’t quite register that usually he dislikes having differences between his father and himself pointed out, but right now, he’s voluntarily highlighting the differences himself.

 

He never has seen the point of the way his father treats their elves. His mother gets much better results out of them, with far less effort. Narcissa is stern with them, absolutely, but she is never violent – and they all adore her, go out of their way to please her, are desperate for her approval.

 

They’re all terrified of his father, though, and while they will do as he asks, they’ll only ever do that, and nothing extra. They’re not desperate for his approval the way they are for Narcissa’s, because they know they’ll never get Lucius’ approval. The best they can hope for with him is that they’ll please him enough to escape him without being on the receiving end of a hex.

 

But for Narcissa, the elves will voluntarily go the extra mile, completing tasks for her that she didn’t even know she wanted done – but for Lucius, they’ll do only what they’re told to and then get out of his sight as soon as they can. Draco saw the differences their methods resulted in long before Dobby managed to free himself, even if he doesn’t like to think on it.

 

“So?” he snaps at Potter, cross for reasons he’s not terribly keen to speculate too closely on. “Did I pass your little humanitarian test, or what?”

 

“Yes,” Potter says simply, and Draco… doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

“Hmph,” he says eloquently, and takes a bite of his chicken.

 

“Here we are, Young Master Draco and Mister Harry Potter Sir,” Dobby says, arriving back at their portion of the table with the promised jug of pumpkin juice, and a dish of food that Draco hones in on immediately.

 

“Is that your self-saucing chocolate pudding?” he asks, and Dobby nods, proud. Draco tries not to snatch it out of the elf’s hands, but he’s not entirely sure he succeeds, if Potter’s surprised-and-amused face is anything to go by.

 

“Dobby is been trying to convince the other elves to let him serve it to the students, but the other elves is not sure it is being needed alongside all the other deserts,” Dobby explains as Draco shoves his plate of chicken to the side in order to serve himself an indecent amount of pudding instead. Mother would be appalled, if she were here – both at his behaviour and the serving size – but she isn’t here, and anyway, it’s his favourite desert and Draco hasn’t had it in _years_ (was only ever allowed it on rare occasions anyway, when both his parents were out of the house for dinner, because chocolate pudding is far too _common_ a desert to be served at the Malfoy table, according to Narcissa) so he thinks he can be afforded a little flexibility.

 

“What are they talking about, of course it’s needed,” Draco snaps, distracted, and Potter snorts as Dobby puffs up proudly, while Draco takes his first bite.

 

He doesn’t make a sound of delighted bliss as he spoons his first mouthful of pudding into his mouth, but it’s a near thing.

 

“Ugh,” he says, swallowing his first mouthful and glaring at Dobby. “Why couldn’t you have taught Minky to cook a little before you tricked Father into freeing you?”

 

“Oh no, you is not be getting Minky to do the cooking, is you?” Dobby asks, horrified.

 

“Regrettably, we did, yes,” Draco replies. “Hard boiled eggs, Dobby, she made us _hard boiled eggs.”_

 

Dobby covers his mouth in horror. Draco points at him and sends a Look at Potter.

 

“You see?” he says, vindicated. “ _That’s_ the correct response to Minky’s cooking, Potter. _Horror._ ”

 

Potter snorts unattractively around a mouthful of sandwich. Draco dismisses him.

 

“You have to convince the other elves to let you serve this, Dobby,” Draco says, going back to his pudding. “If it’s a matter of too many deserts, then ditch the treacle tart.”

 

Potter chokes on his last bite of sandwich.

 

“No, don’t!” he says, urgent. “The custard can go, not the treacle tart.”

 

Draco pulls a face at him.

 

“Custard is an accompaniment, not a desert by itself; you can’t take custard. That would be like deciding to get rid of ice cream.”

 

“Ice cream is a desert by itself too, though,” Potter says.

 

“Philistine,” Draco says, and Potter laughs.

 

“Alright, well let me taste this wondrous desert, then,” he says, and makes grabby hands for the dish of pudding. Draco has an irrational moment where he wants to clutch the whole dish to himself, but even he can’t eat the entire pudding, he reasons. Still. It’s with reluctance that he pushes the dish across the table to Potter, who spoons out a modest serve and then takes a bite.

 

“It’s good,” Potter muses after a long moment of slow chewing, and then he grins. There’s chocolate sauce smeared across one of his teeth. “But it’s not as good as treacle tart.”

 

“Your tastebuds are flawed,” Draco informs him.

 

Potter shrugs, and goes back in for another spoonful.

 

“What about the apple crumble?” The-boy-who-wouldn’t-know-a-good-desert-if-it-slapped-him-in-the-face proposes. “We could ditch that.”

 

“Hmm. That one’s Pansy’s favourite,” Draco says, considering, and then his lip curls in a smirk. “Perfect. Yes, get rid of the apple crumble.”

 

“Dobby will tell the others,” Dobby assures, as though pretty much all the elves aren’t listening in anyway. Draco’s fairly sure he knows which one is responsible for the treacle tart – the youngish one with ears almost bigger than his head had perked up with surprised delight when Potter had ardently defended the desert in question.

 

“You’re deliberately getting rid of a friend’s desert?” Potter asks, curious.

 

“She’s not a friend,” Draco corrects. “She’s more of a… well known acquaintance. And she’s been even more annoying than usual, recently, so yes. The apple crumble gets to go. The incessant whining should be entertaining.”

 

Potter huffs a little, bemused, and then spoons up his last mouthful of pudding.

 

“We’d better go – lunch has got to be pretty much over by now, and we’ve got Defence right after.”

 

Draco grimaces at the thought of walking into Moody’s class late, and hurriedly finishes his own desert.

 

The elves all cluster around them as they’re leaving, trying to press more food on them to take with them, and no amount of pointing out that they’re going to class and can’t sneak any food in with them manages to fend any of the elves off, and Potter and Draco both end up with an assortment of biscuits tucked into their robes pockets before they’re able to make it out the door.

 

“Will – ” Dobby asks hesitantly, as they’re both about to head out into the corridor and make a run for class. “Will Young Master Draco come and visit Dobby again?”

 

“Promise to give me more of that pudding whenever I do, and absolutely,” Draco says without thinking about it, and Dobby beams. He’s still beaming as Draco and Potter head out into the corridor and shut the kitchen door behind themselves.

 

“What,” Draco asks as they set off for Defence, because he can feel the look Potter is giving him even without glancing at the other boy.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Potter says. “I didn’t think you’d kick him across the kitchen, but – I am surprised at how… enthusiastic your reunion was.”

 

Draco sends the other boy a dark look.

 

“I protest the use of _enthusiastic,”_ he says archly, because Malfoy’s don’t _get_ enthusiastic, thank you very much.

 

He’s not going to say anything else, but then Potter doesn’t fill the silence that follows – just keeps looking at him expectantly as they walk along – and Draco speaks quite despite himself.

 

“I know you were raised in a muggle household and have no clue as to how purebloods do things,” he explains, “but pureblood families assign a house elf to care for their children. Dobby was the one assigned to me.”

 

“How do you mean ‘care for’?” Potter asks, a puzzled look on his face, and Draco sends him a glance.

 

“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’?” he asks. “They take care of the child. Feed it, clean it, see it off to bed – all of that.”

 

“Your parents didn’t put you to bed?” Potter asks, and Draco’s face twists into one of irritation at the other boy’s tone.

 

“If that’s pity in your voice, Potter, then you can stow it. This is how purebloods raise their children. Pansy and Theo and Blaise all had house elves of their own too, and barely saw their parents either.”

 

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that part. Well whatever, it’s true. Draco had the same kind of upbringing as almost all of his classmates, and its exactly the kind of upbringing any pureblood child should get, and if Potter’s going to get all apologetic over it, then Draco’s going to tell him where to shove it.

 

“No, it’s not pity – I just… didn’t realise that’s how purebloods did things, that’s all,” Potter says, striving for casual. “I mean, it’s not how the Weasley’s do things.”

 

Draco manfully refrains from saying any of the many responses that spring to mind.

 

“Well. The Weasley’s don’t have a house elf, do they,” is what he settles on saying, and is proud of himself for coming up with something so un-inflammatory.

 

“No,” Potter concedes. “Still. My aunt would tuck my cousin in every night when we were kids, and I was always jealous.”

 

Draco slants a subtle sideways glance at Potter. He’s not mentioned anything about his home life before. Potter’s home life is a closely guarded secret, in fact. All anyone knows is that he lives with muggle relatives. Now Draco knows he lives with an aunt and a cousin, at the very least. Potter’s face is far more solemn than Draco’s gotten used to seeing, he notes. Draco’s grown used to seeing the other boy laugh and grin; this introspective, unsmiling look is new, and it doesn’t suit him. 

 

“I have no frame of reference for muggle child-rearing techniques,” Draco says regally, instead of acknowledging what Potter’s just shared, and Potter snorts.

 

“I never imagined that you would,” Potter says with a sideways grin, and Draco is pretty sure he’s being mocked, but he’s not entirely sure how, and anyway, his haughty words have knocked Potter out of his melancholy, so mission accomplished.

 

They step out of the corridor and back into the main entrance hall, where the last dregs of the student body are exiting the Great Hall and hurrying off in the direction of class. Draco and Potter make to join them, but Snape detaches himself from the shadows he was hiding in and looms in front of them suddenly, making Potter jump.

 

“Mister Malfoy,” the Head of Slytherin intones. “If you would come with me.”

 

“Certainly,” Draco replies easily, as though he’s not surprised by the man’s abrupt appearance, and then – even though he has a feeling he knows where to and what for – asks, “Where to, Sir?”

 

Snape glowers, but answers.

 

“You have some visitors,” he says, staring down his nose at Draco and ignoring Potter’s presence entirely. “Your parents are, naturally, concerned about your sudden and unexpected appearance in the Wizarding World’s gossip rag, and have apparently determined that they must check on your welfare in person in the wake of it.”

 

“There’s family reunions left right and centre today,” Draco mutters under his breath, and Snape’s eyes narrow curiously as Potter darts a sideways glance at him, but Draco ignores them both and says, at normal volume, “Of course, sir. Lead the way.”

 

Snape needs no further encouragement, and swoops off, heading towards the corridor that leads to the Slytherin Common Room and the man’s own office.

 

Draco makes to follow, but Potter catches his arm.

 

“Is – uh,” he says, trying to find the words for what he wants to ask. “Is your father going to be… ok? With this whole…”

 

“With you and I being friends?” Draco fills in for him

 

“Yeah, that,” Potter says, and Draco gets that happy little buzz of success again when Potter fails to debate Draco’s choice of words. “He hates me. I’m fairly sure he’s not going to be pleased about – this.”

 

“Probably not,” Draco says casually. “But he’ll come around, I’m sure.”

 

Potter looks dubious.

 

“I mean – I’ve only met him the once,” Potter goes on, determined. “But, well. I mean – the way he was with Dobby…”

 

Draco rolls his eyes.

 

“I appreciate the concern, but I’m his son, not a house elf. He’s not going to… whatever horrifying thing you’re clearly thinking, I don’t know – turn me into a flobberworm, or something equally as drastic. My father would be delighted you think him capable of that, however.”

 

Potter doesn’t look convinced.

 

“If you two are _quite_ done with your little chat,” Snape says, having reapproached them when Draco failed to follow, and his voice is low and cross.

 

“Yes, I’m coming,” Draco says, and pushes Potter in the direction of the main staircase that will lead him to the Defence classroom. Potter looks thoroughly unconvinced, but he goes, reluctance clear in his every move. Draco refuses to be charmed.

 

“I see you’ve found yourself on the relatively short list of people Potter would risk detention for to protect from imagined threats,” Snape drawls once Potter’s out of hearing, turning once again to head towards his office.

 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco replies lightly, following. “Potter would risk detention for someone he didn’t even know if he thought they were under threat.”

 

Snape sends him a piercing look accompanied by a hum that manages to be both disapproving and considering at the same time, but doesn’t pursue the topic.

 

They don’t speak as they make their way through the corridors, and it’s not long before they arrive at Snape’s office.

 

He opens the door and strides in, Draco following, and Draco barely makes it through the door before his mother is swooping down on him.

 

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa says, embracing him lightly and then withdrawing to hold him at arms length so she can look him over. “Are you well?”

 

“I am, mother,” he replies, smiling at her. She does this every time he returns from school, as though she has doubts about the school’s ability to keep him properly fed and is looking for evidence to support her fears. It’s… warming.

 

She never doubted Dobby’s ability to keep him fed, Draco realises, and he decides in that moment to refrain from mentioning Hogwarts’ newest employee. Narcissa may stop worrying that he’s getting enough to eat, if he tells her.

 

“Draco,” Mr Malfoy greets, and Draco looks past his mother to nod respectfully at Lucius.

 

“Father,” Draco returns, and Lucius turns to Snape, still standing quietly nearby.

 

“Thank you for fetching our son, Severus,” Lucius says smoothly. “I hate to be an imposition, but I feel this conversation might be better had in private, if you don’t mind.”

 

It’s not a suggestion, and Draco can see the irritation on Snape’s otherwise impassive face even as the man nods once.

 

“Of course, Lucius,” he agrees. “I have a class to attend to, in any case. Have Draco come to my classroom once you’re finished here, and I will issue him with a late pass for Defence.”

 

“Thank you, Severus,” Narcissa says, and Snape nods at her smoothly and then leaves the room, closing the door behind himself. Draco waits, and not a moment later his father has sent several different privacy charms at the door.

 

Then he drops a copy of today’s Prophet on Snape’s desk.

 

“Explain,” is all he says, and Draco – who came up with a way to handle this inevitable discussion as soon as he saw the article this morning – nods.

 

“Of course Father,” he says easily, and then asks, “Do you recall the request you issued me with, in the month before First Year?”

 

Draco is confident that his father will know exactly what he’s referring to, without any further description.

 

“Harry Potter is due to begin at Hogwarts,” Lucius had said, in the weeks before Draco set off on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, years ago. “It would be… advantageous, were you to cultivate an acquaintance with him.”

 

Draco remembers being disgusted at the request. The Dark Lord, after all, may have been a raging lunatic with ultimately untenable plans for the Wizarding World, but he _had_ had the right base concept, in terms of the importance and superiority of blood purity.

 

He’d gone about it all in a disastrous, unsustainable way, of course.  Pure bloods should be running the world, that goes without saying, but it would be a bit counter-productive to kill everyone unfortunate enough to not be born with quality blood. The world still needs to _run_ – robes still need to be made, and restaurants run, and children taught, and paperwork filed, and records kept, and broomsticks repaired, and crops grown. And pure bloods obviously aren’t going to do any of _that._ Therefore, there needs to be a tiered system. Purebloods at the top, then half bloods, and then mudbloods. The mudbloods would be the ones to do all the menial, dull tasks unbefitting of a pureblood, the half-bloods would complete all the mid-range duties, leaving the purebloods free to actually run things.

 

So the Dark Lord had had the right concept, he’d just executed it all in a… less than ideal manner.

 

But Lucius wanting Draco to befriend a _half-blood?_ A half-blood who was held in highest esteem by blood traitors and mudblood lovers? It was an insult.

 

Lucius must have understood the expression on his son’s face, because he had explained the benefits that befriending the Boy-Who-Lived would entail. Power breeds power, and Potter may only have been an eleven year old boy, but he was already one of the most influential people in the Wizarding World, and his political sway would only grow as he got older. It would be extremely advantageous for the Malfoy heir to be friendly with Harry Potter.

 

Draco had agreed, then, to do his best to befriend the boy. Unfortunately, it hadn’t quite worked out. Draco knows now where he went wrong, and he’s doing exceptionally well this time around to avoid making any of the same mistakes.

 

“I do recall,” Lucius responds now, eyes narrowed speculatively.

 

“Well, due to… unforeseen circumstances, I was unable to complete your request at that time,” Draco explains, glossing over his own over-eagerness and how he had inadvertently ruined his own chances.

 

“An opening recently arose, however,” he goes on. “A brief window of opportunity. I elected to take it; to attempt to complete your request, years ago though it may have been. I have made significant process. I believe he already considers us tentative friends.”

 

That’s an understatement though, really. Draco _knows_ Potter already considers them friends. He doesn’t know why he downplays it. Usually he _over_ states his achievements to his father.

 

“I see,” Lucius says, and Draco can’t quite tell what he’s thinking.

 

“Well done, Draco,” Narcissa says, and runs a proud hand over her son’s hair. Draco leans into the touch. “I know it can’t have been easy, pretending to put aside all the years of animosity you two have between you.”

 

It’s been… surprisingly easy, actually. But Draco keeps that thought to himself. Much better for his parents to think this has been a far more difficult task than it has been, and that he’s succeeding anyway.

 

“I know how good it will be for the Malfoy name, to be publically friendly with him,” is all Draco says, and Narcissa smiles at him.

 

“Yes,” Lucius says, his expression sharp and calculating as he continues to consider this unexpected turn of events. “I imagine it’s already having an impact. The Skeeter article wasn’t nearly as damaging as it otherwise may have been, considering that it was all about how _friendly_ a Malfoy is with Potter.”

 

“You’re not going to let that article stand, though, are you Father?” Draco asks. “She can’t say what she said about you and not face repercussions.”

 

Lucius smiles a little, looking both proud and foreboding.

 

“Oh no, she will definitely face repercussions,” he assures. “I have a meeting with the editor of the Prophet organised for this afternoon. I doubt you’ll be seeing her name in print any time soon.”

 

Draco grins.

 

“Good,” he says, and Lucius flashes a brief smile at him.

 

“Indeed,” he agrees, and then gestures to the paper in question. “And as for this… development, I agree with your mother. Well done.”

 

A flush of pleasure at the praise rushes through Draco, and he stands up straighter under the force of it.

 

“Thank you,” he says, proud.

 

“Just…” Lucius continues, still looking severe and reticent, and Draco tenses a little in anticipation as he waits to hear his father’s next words. “Ensure that you do not get… attached.”

 

“Attached?” Draco scoffs in amusement, relaxing. “To the Boy Who Lived? I think not.”

 

Lucius watches him for a long moment, and then nods a short, sharp nod.

 

“Very well,” he says, and runs a hand along his robes to smooth the non-existent creases. “Narcissa, I believe we are done here.”

 

“Of course, dear,” Narcissa says, and leans down to press a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “Stay well, Draco, and make sure to keep up with your letter writing.”

 

“Yes,” Lucius drawls. “I would hate to hear about any further significant developments via the _Prophet,_ in future.”

 

Draco grimaces a little.

 

“Apologies, Father, but I didn’t want to mention it to you if it wasn’t going to succeed. I also wasn’t quite sure how to word it in a letter without outright stating my reasoning. I figured it would be better to tell you in person, where I could be assured that no unfriendly eyes would read something they shouldn’t.”

 

“Hm,” Lucius says, not sounding entirely pleased, but accepting the reasoning. “Very well. Farewell, Draco. We shall see you at Christmas. I’ll expect a detailed update then.”

 

“Of course, Father,” Draco says. “Farewell, Mother.”

 

Narcissa runs a final hand over his hair, and then joins her husband at the door and wraps a hand around his elbow. Lucius nods once to his son, and then strides out and away down the corridor, without a backwards glance. Narcissa glances back once and waves her fingers at Draco, who sends her a return smile, and then they vanish around a corner.

 

Draco heads in the opposite direction, and knocks on the door of Snape’s classroom.

 

The Potions Master appears in the doorway a moment later, the students behind him – sixth years, looks like – not even looking up from their brewing to see who’s at the door.

 

“Ah, Draco,” he says, voice quiet enough that he won’t be overheard by any of the students. He gives the Slytherin boy a calculating once over as he goes on, “Your father is satisfied that you have not tripped, hit your head, and become a Potter Devotee, I gather?”

 

Draco’s lip twitches in amusement.

 

“Devotee is hardly a title that would suit me, Sir,” he says, and Snape peers at him for another long moment as though he could pry the answers out of Draco’s skin.

 

“Very well,” he says, and summons a piece of parchment from his desk, charming it into a late pass.

 

As he does so, he eyes Draco and warns sternly, “This pass will tell Professor Moody the precise time you left my presence, as well as the predicted time of your arrival to his classroom, so do not think that this is a free pass for you wander the halls like some kind of vagrant.”

 

“Of course not, sir,” Draco replies, taking the pass when it’s held out to him.

 

Snape narrows his eyes, like he thinks that his association with Potter has him daring enough to defy the combination of Snape and Moody, and then waves a dismissive hand.

 

“You’re dismissed,” he says, and Draco nods at him and leaves without another word. He can feel Snape’s eyes on him until he disappears around the same corner his parents vanished around not too long ago, but he doesn’t look back.

 

As promised, he heads straight to Defence, no detours. Potter may have him eating lunch in the kitchens in direct contravention of the rules, but Draco’s not nearly stupid enough to lollygag on the way to this particular class.  

 

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” he says to a glaring Moody as he lets himself into the classroom. “I have a late pass.”

 

Moody accepts Draco’s note with a suspicious look and muttered comments that aren’t loud enough to carry to Draco’s ears, and he checks the time on the wall-clock against his wristwatch against the predicted time of arrival on the note three times before he’s satisfied that Draco didn’t get up to any misadventures between Snape and the DADA classroom, before finally grunting in what Draco assumes is dismissal and gesturing towards the one empty seat left.

 

“Well sit down, then – you’ve missed quite enough of this lecture without dawdling even more now that you’re finally here,” he snaps. “And if you or Potter eat a single one of those biscuits you’ve got hidden in your robes while you’re in my classroom, you’ll both be in detention for a week.”

 

Draco refrains from rolling his eyes as he turns to make his way to the available desk, even as his mind immediately starts to brainstorm how he could possibly sneak a biscuit without Moody’s notice, just for the pure pleasure of getting one by the grumpy old madman.

 

Then he catches sight of Potter, who’s peering worriedly at him and trying to communicate something with his eyebrows.

 

Draco _does_ roll his eyes then, clearly and emphatically, hopefully conveying succinctly that quite despite Potter’s obvious fears, no, Lucius did not murder Draco and transfigure him into a windowpane which he then volunteered for use as a test subject at a Bludger testing facility.

 

Potter reads the expression correctly – or at least, correctly enough that he subsides in his chair looking relieved. Draco takes his seat and deliberately keeps his face impassive, instead of allowing any of the warm pride in his chest – over the fact that he managed to make Potter _worry_ about him, and the fact that his parents are proud of him, and the fact that Snape is still trying and failing to work out his motives – show on his face.

 

Today has been a good day, and it’s not even teatime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s hoping that 11.4k words is enough to make up for the long delay! Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think. :) Our boy is making some emotional advancements, but he’s not even aware of it, the dear little blockhead. 
> 
> Some further notes: 
> 
> * Dobby calls Draco “Young Master Draco” not as a throwback to when the Malfoys were his masters (or, not entirely, at least), but because the title for adolescent boys is Master, in the same way that the title for girls is Miss. So using the correct terms of address for the Malfoy family, they would be Mister Malfoy, Mrs Malfoy, and Master Draco. If Draco had a sister, she would be Miss [first name]. So it’s not Master in terms of slave and master, it’s Master in terms of the title we use for an adolescent boy. It’s what he called Draco in the manor, and so it is habit that has him using the same term now, but there’s no bond of ownership; only mutual (if unspoken, on Draco’s side) fondness. 
> 
> And regarding Hufflepuff Fudge: It wasn’t so much traits that ruled him into a House so much as traits that ruled him out of Houses. Reasoning includes: he’s completely spineless and not remotely a risk-taker, so unlikely to be Gryffindor. He has either no ability for critical thought or no desire for it, so either way he’s unlikely to be a Ravenclaw. Slytherin is a possibility, but while he is ambitious, he’s hardly cunning or resourceful. 
> 
> In terms of Hufflepuff, one might argue that he’s not fair-minded either, but I think he probably thinks he’s fair. He sees himself as a good guy, so I reckon he probably thinks he’s a great, just, fair leader. Plus, he has to be hardworking to climb the ranks to the Minister’s office, at the very least. So that’s why I went with Hufflepuff. It’s not remotely intended as a slight against Hufflepuff; for one, there are dodgy people in every House, but also, I’m only a Gryffindor by a hair; were I not a Gryff, I would be a ‘Puff. I did the Sorting Hat test that tells you your compatibility with each House – as in, it gives you a score out of 100 for each individual House. I got 98% compatibility with Gryffindor, and 97% for Hufflepuff. So – literally 1% difference between the two. (Side note for those interested, I got like 60-ish% for Ravenclaw, and about 20% compatibility for Slytherin. My two besties are both Slytherin, and when I told them my results, they – who regularly despair over my Gryffinpuff tendencies – were **utterly** unsurprised.)


End file.
